Silent Night
by The Hmuff
Summary: COMPLETED! R&R! While a monstrous blizzard sweeps over Belgium, a man is killed at Marlinspike Hall. One of the five strangers trapped inside the Hall is the murderer. With no escape, Tintin must find out which one, before everybody is killed— and must also choose between following his conscience, or the law. WARNING violent/disturbing scenes
1. The Setting

He stood on the scaffold, hands manacled tightly behind his back. His face was set into a dark, bleak expression, completely passionless, free from any defining emotion.

Everything about him was impassable, in every meaning of the word. Utterly, unbelievably impassable. He'd grown up hearing that man was made in God's image. He had wiped the image of God clean from his soul.

And nothing could change that expression. Even the sound of keys rattling into the door opposite. Even the slow, steady sound of boots, as they made their way towards him. Even as the blindfold went over his eyes.

They would pay, he thought. And it was all he thought. He wasn't frightened: not in the least. It was just a dull, clenching bitterness, clawing through his gut.

But he didn't let it show.

He didn't let anything show.

And it was at that moment that he decided:

He would survive.


	2. The Stage is Set

** Disclaimer: **I don't own Tintin or Moulinsart. But you already know that. :)

**Also**, some people have said that this book should have been M for violence. I disagree, but there are several scenes that are kinda bloody/mature, so... just letting you know.

* * *

**Chapter One**

The voice on the radio said that the entire country, from Ostend to Arlon, would be under the effects of a massive snowstorm, beginning tomorrow, and lasting until at least the end of the week. The heart of the storm was prophesised to be in Brussels; from there, its icy claws would extend for a hundred kilometre radius in every direction, ravaging Walloon with freezing snow and 60 km/h winds.

The village of Moulinsart was caught in this radius.

Homes that hadn't been renovated in over a hundred years suddenly sported stronger roofs. Century-old trees were cut down to stop them from falling on buildings. The hardware store ran out of shovels; the grocer sold his last crate of canned food. Trains from Liège ran through the village almost daily, shipping kerosene, batteries, and petrol to Beersel and Wavre, dropping much-needed supplies at Moulinsart on the way.

Nobody panicked, exactly; Moulinsart winters were always strong, and the toughened villagers weren't the griping sort. But all the same, anxiety was in the air. It gently floated along with the unnaturally cold air, drifting on the bitter December breeze, slowly gathering weight everywhere it landed until you just knew that soon, something was going to collapse.

Worst of all, the blizzard would come in time for Christmas.

Everything was in a flurry, and the Chateau de Moulinsart was no exception. Moulinsart was an antiquated old hall that hadn't adapted well to the advent of electricity, so the previous owners had wisely kept all the old gas stoves. These were tucked away safely in the basement, along with crates of canned food, fuel, and the Château's own well. But even still, being wrapped in a six-foot blanket of snow and ice was hardly the sort of thing one could anticipate impassively.

Captain Haddock took it the worst of all. He wasn't a calm person; had never been, and in the foreseeable future, would never be. He could also be sentimental and nostalgic, and the thought of the holidays being ruined by some stupid storm was beyond irritating; it was downright outrageous. He was muttering about it to himself as made his lunch. "Ridiculous," he grumbled, stacking sandwich toppings on the counter as he removed them from the icebox: cucumbers, tongue, tomatoes, mayonnaise, pate— the lot. Slathering butter over _pain de mie _bread, he glared out the window at the bleak, dead world outside, and wished desperately for spring.

The sound of barking, slowly getting louder, alerted him to the presence of a certain someone, and a certain annoying dog, coming up the walk. The Captain put down the butter-knife and exited the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pant legs.

Tintin had just returned from his stroll to the village; he and his pet terrier Snowy strode through the front door and shut it quickly behind them. The front lawn was brown and had that withered look reminiscent of long-dead leaves. The sky above hung grey and heavy, waiting to snow.

"Bonjour. There's no tinned milk left in the store," he informed the Captain, removing his scarf and gloves. His hands were stiff and flaming red underneath. "Four bags of flour. No tea. Almost no butter."

"We're spending the entire holidays, holed up like rabbits."

"I think everybody in the village should be fine." He was intentionally ignoring Haddock's gloomy predictions.

"We're going to be trapped like anamorphic jellyfish."

"The last train's just come from Liège," Tintin continued, silently questioning the Captain's analogy, but not mentioning it. "Loads of fuel were dropped off in the village. I think everybody will be fine. Oh; I almost forgot." Digging around in his overcoat pockets for a few moments, he triumphantly produced a large tin of tobacco and handed it over to the Captain. "They were out of Perique, I'm afraid, but they had Cavendish."

He accepted the tobacco. He held it in both hands, looking down at the tin rather glumly. "Thanks, Tintin." He sighed. "That was very thoughtful."

"Don't mention it, mon ami," he replied, already making his way out of the room. "What's for tea?"

"Tea?" He shook his head, chuckling softly. The lad used to be so rigidly Belgian, but he was finally cracking. "You anglophile. I've finally converted you."

"No, you've not," he retorted defensively, his voice coming slightly muffled from the kitchen. "I like tea. That doesn't mean I'm turning British or anything. Oh, sandwiches."

"I was making some when I heard you barging in," the Captain explained, joining Tintin in the kitchen. He glanced out the kitchen window; the wind was picking up. "Put on a kettle; I'll finish up. What do you want on yours?"

"Liverwurst and tomato, please," Tintin replied, automatically.

Haddock hid a smirk.

/

Dinner was a stressful affair. The storm was rising, nerves tightening. Scattered leaves went flying across the lawn, beating against in the Hall's windowpanes; wind whispered and moaned through the fireplaces; tree branches bashed the outside walls, sounding like long-nailed fingers clawing at the stone. That was the worst bit; the infernal whipping and scratching noises coming from those infernal skeleton trees.

The three of them— Tintin, Haddock, and Calculus— supped quietly, feeling rather as if speech would be a superfluity to what they were already hearing. They simply listened to the cacophony of sounds (Tintin and Haddock did, at least; Calculus was mercifully oblivious) and silently waited for the other to crack.

Mechanically feeding himself carbonnades flamandes, the Captain paused, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth.

_Crumbs, _Tintin thought dismally. _He's going to do it again. _When eating carbonnades flamandes, Haddock had a habit of periodically pouring beer into the already beer-soaked stew. The amount of beer dumped in rose proportionately with how anxious he was, and as of right now, he looked very, very anxious.

He swallowed. "Captain, I really think you should—"

_Bang!_

By force of habit, the two of them leapt out of their seats, bodies rigid, hands flying to where their holsters usually were. As fate would have it, Nestor had cleaned all firearms in the house some days ago, so their revolvers weren't in their holsters; they weren't even wearing holsters. Glancing at eachother, they nodded. _Let's take him down, _was the unspoken message.

They abandoned Calculus in the dining room, throwing their chairs backwards and hurdling towards the foyer.

Haddock started to bellow, "Nestor, ring—"

"Ringing the police right now, sir," interrupted Nestor, from upstairs. His words went unheard; the two were already out the front door.

They exited Moulinsart, stumbled down the drive, and through the front gate, a strange cocktail of adrenaline, worry, and sheer exhilaration forcing their heartbeats into a frantic gait, thudding like two jackhammers.

When they found the man there, standing in front of the parked car, Haddock was the first to act.

"Where is he?" he barked, his blue eyes intense, almost wild.

"W— where's who?" The man was tall, moustached, and looked very posh. He had a surprisingly high voice for a man of his stature.

"Who was shot?"

"Someone was shot?" he asked, sounding horrified.

Tintin stepped up from behind him; Haddock could see his silhouette in the glow from the car's headlights.

"Who are you? What happened?" he asked, in the low, cold tone that he reserved purely for talking to murderers.

A shiver went down Haddock's spine. It was disturbing to hear him like this.

The man tried to back away, but the Captain's hands held a tight grip on his collar. He swallowed, his Adam's apple jiggling. "I was driving, when— when the—" He couldn't finish his sentence, but pointed shakily at the tyres of his car.

Sure enough, one of them had blown.

They stared at the tyre for a moment. They weren't sure whether or not to laugh. And then Tintin smiled— bright and innocent, as ever. Every trace of the deathly chill instantly wiped away. The sudden change was nothing if not downright disconcerting.

"Right," he said, almost cheerfully. "Why don't we take this into the garage and we can get your tyre replaced? We have to have a dozen spares."

He swallowed again, shooting Haddock a quiet glare as he re-adjusted his collar. "Thank you, um, very much, but I already have a spare, see, and I really…"

"Nonsense." His sunny smile didn't flicker a bit. "You need to at least warm yourself before going out again. It's an awful night. We have buckets of whisky."

"He can't—" began the Captain, but Tintin interrupted.

"Do come in."

It took the man a long time to say yes, but eventually he agreed, and, with much effort, they rolled the automobile into the garage.

_Too long,_ Tintin thought.


	3. The Cast

**Chapter 2**

**10 PM  
December 18****th****  
24 hours earlier**

Odette Bienvenue woke up with a start.

It took her a good number of seconds to remember where she was. At first, she was alarmed by her surroundings. There was nothing surprising about being in a bleak, barren cell, barely the size of her closet back home; nor was the frigid cold anything new. But the room she was in was _moving._

And then she remembered. The train.

They were taking her away from Namur for good; Odette knew that much. But she wasn't exactly sure where she was going. The guard had mentioned Germany; perhaps that was where. It wasn't a notion she exactly cherished, but when you were in her situation, hoping for the best was simply out of the question. You didn't let yourself. You might as well hope for gold at the end of a rainbow.

She sighed, tapping her fingers against the manacles embracing her wrists. Those fingers had been skilled, once; a pianist's fingers. But brute labour had drained the life from them.

Moulinsart, she thought suddenly, and remembered the guard had also mentioned that name along with Germany. The name had meant something to her when she'd heard it, but now she'd forgotten.

What did it mean? And where did she remember it from?

**3 AM  
December 19****th****  
19 hours earlier**

Hazar Schuuring felt his lips close around the rim of the bottle and he titled his head back, taking a deep swallow of the contents.

_Mmm. Liquid velvet._

"Come now, _meneer_ Schuuring. That's your last bottle for the evening," said Geerte teasingly, cupping her face with her hand as she propped her elbow on the counter. Her hair was braided earlier, but had come loose, and fell in wavy strands around her face as she leaned slightly towards him.

He grinned rather lopsidedly, wiping away a stray trickle of ale from his chin. "Says who?"

Her smile widened, flashing him with white teeth. "Says me."

Laughing, he let her pull the bottle from his grip, and watched with admiration as she downed the entire bottle in one swig. _That's my girl,_ he thought. "You owe me another drink, _missen_ Geerte," he said, cheekily.

Geerte winked. "On the house."

He watched her working as she pulled out another bottle of pale lager, making drinks for the two of them. The sound of band music, coming from the hulking radio perched on the counter, mingled with laughter and drunken singing from teenagers siting at nearby tables. This wasn't any old pub, Hazar thought with satisfaction. This wasn't the kind of place his old grandfather would visit, with those stupid accordions and watered down beer and what have you. No, it was the teenagers who knew how to live. This was the way things were being done now. Drugs. Gambling. Sex. And a lot of booze.

Hazar had never really gotten into the first two— not yet, anyway— but watching Geerte, he decided that the last two were good enough for him. But before he started making too many plans, he had to remind himself that he wasn't free tonight. He had to be in the car in a matter of minutes. And it couldn't wait: not one second.

Licking his lips, he said, finally. "Last drink before I leave."

She glanced away from the drinks, up at him, disbelief evident on her face. "No! Leaving?"

"Jawel. Going to some slum in Belgium."

"Belgium?" she scoffed, tossing her head. She sounded mocking. "Really? Belgium? And it can't wait."

Hazar shook his head wearily. "I can't. I'm meeting up with somebody important. I'd rather stay, but what're you going to do, ja? I'm leaving Maastricht in…" He glanced up at a clock, perched precariously on the wooden wall. "In about 10 minutes. Have to be on my way."

Pouting slightly, she replaced the bottle on the counter. "Wat een schande… I can't believe it."

"Ja, I know… I'll be back soon, though. Wait for me."

Geerte giggled. She handed him his glass, and they clinked theirs together. "Javol; I will."

**4 PM  
6 hours earlier**

"Will that be all, monsieur?" the waitress asked, very cheerful and polite; trying, no doubt, to charm a bigger tip out of the old man in front of her before her shift ended.

Günter Freeh, the old man in front of her, didn't fall for it. "Ja, sehr gut," he said, taking a sip of black coffee as he spoke. "Danke."

Her smile wavered just a bit as she realised he was a German, but still managed to maintain a professional calm as she bobbed a curtsy, and then turned tail and stumbled her way back into the kitchen.

Feeling mildly triumphant, Günter sighed, leaning back in his chair, breathing in the fresh bakery scents. It was peaceful here, in Moulinsart. The best place to spend the holidays. Belgium was a backwards little hole, but it was also pretty, and he almost regretted commanding troops to burn every village they passed, during the War. Hopefully this next time around, they'd be a bit more passive.

He didn't really want to think about that now, though. It was cheery in here, what with the paper stars and snowflakes strung across the windows, the ivy wreathes, the little nativity on the fireplace mantle.

The soft classical music from the radio momentarily paused, the program interrupted for some report about a blizzard. He frowned, slightly. He wondered what this would mean. Hopefully everything would still work out.

**9 PM  
1 hour earlier**

The train was late.

Glancing at his pocket watch— a fancy bit of work valued at five hundred dollars— Norman M. Vogel groaned softly.

The train was very, very late.

He paced back and forth untiringly, his walking stick tapping against the wooden train platform. This never happened in Chicago, ever. He was unaccustomed to being stood up. He wouldn't stand for it. No sir. He'd rent a car. He didn't care if he didn't have a chauffeur. Who cared about that when they were rotting in a dump like this? He'd rent a car and get out of this pathetic excuse for a village before everything was ruined.

Yes sir. He'd rent a car and get his butt out of here…

**Present time**

"Au revior," Tintin called, waving to the man as he slowly pulled out of the drive.

"Drive safely," Haddock added, sounding bored.

They watched him leave, and each unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief.

It was good having that man gone.

**7 ****AM  
****December 20****th  
****Nine hours later**

"A walk, Captain."

Haddock blinked, staring down at the book in his hand as if its words no longer made sense. It was one of those awkward moments, when he suddenly realised that Tintin had spent the last twenty minutes talking to him, and he had no idea what he had been saying. "You— you what?"

"I'm taking Snowy out for a walk," Tintin repeated, lacing up his winter boots. "He's getting antsy, and this might be our last chance before the storm."

"You? You're going on a walk?" The Captain repeated, lowering his book with a slight frown of disbelief. He looked out the window, at the ground glittering with new frost; the fine dust of dry snow, drifting along with the bitter wind. The sky was dark: heavy with storm clouds. It looked miserable out there. "Now?"

"Snowy's jumpy. He needs to get outside."

In the background, Snowy whined anxiously, trotting back and forth, a growl working its way out of his throat.

"He seems restless."

Tightening his scarf around his neck, Tintin reached down and stroked Snowy's slightly prickling fur, frowning. "I know. He's been like this all morning."

"That sixth sense dogs have." He disinterestedly flipped a page in his book. "He can feel the storm." After a moment, he put the book down on his lap, for the first time meeting Tintin's gaze. "You go on ahead; I'll join up later."

"Right."

In a matter of seconds, the boy and his dog were out the door.

/

"Hmm," said Tintin, thoughtfully. Resting his fingertips against his chin, he said it again. "Hmm."

Snowy barked. The young reporter didn't seem to hear. He stood, brow furrowed, staring down at the drive leading to Moulinsart's gates.

"Alright?"

It was the Captain, coming up from behind.

Tintin didn't tear his gaze away from the dirt road. He just nodded slowly. "Yes… I was thinking… well, it probably doesn't matter."

He frowned. This wasn't a good sign. Whenever Tintin said that, it always meant that they were about to get entangled in a new 'adventure.' He really didn't want to know what it was, but all the same, he figured that he should know sooner than later what was going on, so he asked, "What is it?"

His brow furrowed, Tintin said, "Look at those ruts."

Haddock scowled, starting down at the marks in the road. "What about them?"

"If you compare the tyre marks on the road, with the ones going up our drive, they're the exact same."

"So what?"

Tintin sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Captain, our mysterious visitor dragged his car up to where we found it."

"So?" Haddock's voice was almost a roar.

"So his tyre _didn't _explode when he said it did!"

They were silent for a long time, as what Tintin said slowly sank into Haddock's brain.

He felt a chill creep down his spine. "Thundering typhoons…" he finally mumbled. "You're right. Are you— are you saying we actually _did _hear a gunshot?"

"I don't know," Tintin said, slowly, staring down the road. Shrugging, he adjusted his scarf and began to trudge back to the house, his boots crunching into the frost-covered gravel. His face wore that look of extreme concentration, that usually meant danger was nigh. "But I think we'd better find out where Nestor put our firearms."


	4. The Party's Started

**Chapter 3**

When Odette woke again, it was to the painful screeching of the train wheels as the car she was riding in slowly came to a jagged halt. Blinking, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes, she attempted to pull herself upward into a sitting position. It was no easy task; the manacles around her wrists and the stiffness of her body severely hindered movement. _Where am I?_ she wondered. Moulinsart? Already in Germany? She couldn't know for sure. Time seemed to have been suspended in the train car, dragging by so sluggishly that she had no idea how long, therefore how far, they'd travelled; she could be in Brussels or Berlin, for all she knew.

She was glad to be awake. The world of reality, as cold and bitter as it was, was better than the nightmares she'd left behind. Because in her sleep, he was still alive. For a while, at least. Until the end came. When she was standing at the bridge, her hands clinched tight on his jacket, pushing him forward, listening to his screams.

_They said he lied._

Her eyes stared vacantly at the chipped wooden wall in front of her, as if it was the screen of a movie theatre, where the events of these past few years were playing. A movie like that wouldn't sell too many seats— not with a protagonist like the one it had.

_They said he deserved to die._

There was a sharp, screaming sound, and the door to her compartment slid open. Everything went white— burning, agonizing white. She shrunk backward, cowering against the wall, feeling as the light from the outside world blinded her completely.

"Sta op, Bienvenue! Nu!"

She heard a rough, angry voice barking at her, but she couldn't see who it was. Her eyes refused to adjust to the glaring daylight. Odette didn't understand much Flemish, but thought, perhaps, that he was telling her to stand. She tried to comply, but her legs were stiff from the cold and underuse. When she tried to explain, her voice just stuck in her throat.

Grunting angrily, the man grabbed her arm and practically lifted her to her feet. He was all but carrying her as they staggered out together into daylight.

Eventually, though, her eyes did adjust, however slowly, and once she could clearly see, she saw daylight wasn't as bright as she had originally thought. In fact, it was surprisingly dark. Clouds swelled, dim and angry, blocking out the sun; snow was falling, fast, hard, waterfalling out of the grey sky. _We're going to have a storm, _she thought. _A bad one, too._

She didn't realise she was being spoken to for a couple moments, and when she did, it took her a minute to identify where the voice was coming from.

"…looked over your papers." It was a gendarme standing outside the door, in smart blue uniform with a side cap and riding crop. She had apparently only caught the tail end of what he was saying. "You will wait here at the Village de Moulinsart," he continued.

Odette couldn't help but think his riding trousers made it look like he was walking head-on into a gale. "Until when?"

"Until we receive further commands." His voice was sharp.

She noticed he was refusing to look at her. It made her feel more inhuman that she already did.

Quickly deciding against questioning the gendarme any further, she simply let the gendarmes lead her into the police station.

The storm, she noticed, was getting stronger.

/

"Just look at that storm," observed the Captain, turning to face Tintin as he walked into the room. He gestured out the window with his pipe. "Look at it."

Joining him at the window, Tintin swore softly. "Sacrebleu."

The wind was a wild, screaming banshee, leaving a trail of stark whiteness in its wake. The trees were already coated in a layer of thick, hard snow; the lawn was completely blanketed. Visibility was almost non-existent. You could hardly see the front gate.

Snowy trotted in, looking rather pleased with himself, which the Captain took to be a bad sign. All the same, he didn't mention it; he knew that Tintin had loads on his mind already—what with the tyre tracks, and the rising storm.

From the foyer, he heard the sound of the front door slamming; he turned around to face Tintin, intending to ask who that was, but saw the boy was gone.

Blistering barnacles…

He ran his fingers down his hair and onto the bridge of his nose, pinching it tiredly. He was getting too old for this, he thought, as he pulled on his coat and dashed out the door to join Tintin.

/

Norman M. Vogel: that was his name. He was an American businessman, and— Tintin thought— didn't seem to be the happiest of men. Not that he expected men to be happy, especially not Americans, whom the Depression was hitting hard. But still, a little politeness was in order, especially after Tintin had run out there into the freezing cold, helped him drag his car to the other side of the road, and invited him inside to stay at the Hall.

Yes, a thank-you was _definitely _in order.

"Hang your coat up over there," Tintin directed, pointing to a coatrack in the mudroom, "And you can leave your scarf and gloves there, too."

"If you wish," he said, almost coldly.

Perturbed by the man's unwarranted rigidity, Tintin could feel his smile wavering. "We'll be more than happy to put you up until the storm is over," he lied.

The moment he finished speaking, the lights in the Hall flickered.

Haddock blinked. "Nestor! The fuses are—"

"Already on my way, sir," called Nestor, anticipating him.

Vogel, unfazed by the dying lights, was casting his gaze over the marble arches above his head. "Nice setup you got," he commented.

"Merci."

"It belonged to my ancestor," added the Captain, who felt somewhat obliged to contribute to the conversation, but wasn't exactly sure what to say.

"Oh." Vogel nodded towards Tintin. "He your kid, or what?"

Tintin adopted a much softer tone as he replied, "Every way but blood."

"Hmm." For whatever reason, the American looked unconvinced. "How old?"

_This isn't an interrogation, _he wanted to say, but refrained. "Sixteen."

For a moment, a look of mild disbelief crossed the man's otherwise austere features. And then he laughed.

It wasn't just a polite laugh, like he'd thought Tintin had been telling a slightly lame joke. Tintin could've handled that. But it was a mocking laugh, and that did nothing but tell Tintin that Vogel thought he was a pathetic excuse for a sixteen year old.

There was an uncomfortable silence from Haddock and Tintin as the laughing dragged on. And as that finally died down, he asked, still chuckling, "So, kid: have a girlfriend?" _Have you even gone through puberty? _was the unspoken question.

Thinking quickly, the Captain took Vogel's arm, very genially, and began walking up the stairs. "We'll find you a room," he said, saving Tintin from having to answer.

Tintin appreciated it Haddock's intervention. He really did. But he could feel his face flush red, and looked away, muttering something about being too busy for girls. He couldn't bring himself to say that no mildly attractive girl would date a boy shorter than they were. They just didn't respect him.

He was glad the two of them were going upstairs, away from him. He couldn't look him in the eye. He didn't want to see the scorn there.

/

"Heilige moeder!" Hazar swore, bashing his fist against the steering wheel. "Move!"

The automobile crept down the road, inching forward, fighting, and losing, against the sheer power of the storm. Nothing he could do could make the car go any faster.

If he didn't get there soon…

He was getting nervous. He wasn't the type to be scared easily. He was Flemish, after all; he didn't just get _afraid._ But he _did_ really want to get out of here.

Swearing loudly, he dug the gas pedal into the floor with wild ferocity. It did nothing to goad the vehicle into going any faster than it already was.

The automobile finally rolled to a stop, some metres from a massive, iron gate.

It was there that he noticed the other car. He stared at it for a long time. He felt nervous again. But not afraid. Never afraid.

_The party's started, _he thought, and cracked a grin.

Abandoning his own car on the road, Hazar leapt out, shivering in the bitter cold, and threw all his weight against the gates. They creaked open, showing him the way down the drive, and to the double doors of the Hall.

/

Tintin and the Captain had only just shown Vogel into his room when they heard the knocking, banging hard against the door. Exchanging glances— not scared, but apprehensive all the same— they quickly walked down the stairs, feeling for the holsters at their sides. Considering the storm, it was probably another refuge, but knowing their line of work—and the tyre tracks on the drive— it could be anything coming through those doors.

The moment Haddock twisted the handle, the door flew open. There was a flurry of white, and a figure burst, coughing, into the Hall. He was so covered in snowflakes and wrapped in winter clothes it was impossible to tell his age, his size— at all what he looked like.

"Finally! Thank heaven," he exulted, speaking in rapid Flemish. "Warmth!"

Haddock glanced at Tintin, waiting for him to translate. The Captain barely knew elementary French, which he heard Tintin speak all the time, let alone Flemish.

Chewing on his lip, Tintin thought for a moment, and then asked, "Parlez-vous… er… spreekt u Frans?"

The stranger paused, looking somewhat unsure of himself.

"Engels?"

"Engels? English? Oh, yeah; of course." Grinning, he began unwinding his scarf, shaking snowflakes out of his ashy hair. "The name's Hazar Schuuring," he responded. His tone and expression were nothing if not jaunty. "From Maastricht. Netherlands. I was on my way to Moulinsart… know where that is? Should be somewhere in the area."

Tintin breathed a sigh of relief. He hated translating. "This is Chateau de… I mean, Moulinsart Hall. You've arrived."

His face lighting up with another smile, Hazar ripped off his overcoat and tossed in to the floor, scattering drops of water everywhere. "Wat een geluk! That makes life easier. Mind if I stay a while? Until the storm dies down. Then I'll be on my way." He said it such a way to immediately kerb any attempt at argument. His hand moved towards his pocket, but stopped, hovering a couple inches away. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Don't mind a bit," the Captain replied, taking out his own pipe, in turn. "Come on into the drawing room; we'll see about setting you up for the night."

Tintin was left picking Hazard's coat off the floor as he and the Captain strolled towards the drawing room, chatting lightly. He had to run to catch up.

Finally able to see the face of their unexpected guest, he realised he was probably about sixteen or seventeen. He looked like the Carpe Diem type: vain, ribald, cocky, all-around carefree. Not to mention about two metres tall. Tintin was used to having to tilt his head to look people in the eye, and it normally didn't bother him at all, but, still stinging from Vogel's laughter, he suddenly felt— he couldn't place it. Not _inadequate. _Perhaps it was envy. But he didn't enjoy it, whatever it was.

/

Odette wanted to be happy that she was finally getting to Germany, and she knew she should be happy that she didn't have to get back on the train. There'd been a problem further up the line, so an old General who'd stopped at Moulinsart on his way to Berlin had offered to take her. But she _wasn't_ happy. She was scared. She was scared of the storm, and the General, and his chauffer, a young Englishman who… who was _off, _somehow. She couldn't place how, but he was unnerving. And she was scared. She had no idea where they were. All she knew was that with the storm the way it was, they weren't going to make it to Berlin.

"Cigarette?" asked the General. He was leaning over from the passenger seat, extending a pack to her. It was difficult to understand him; the wind was screaming so loudly.

She shook her head.

Frowning, he offered it again, almost shoving it in her face. His voice was gravelly, ragged-sounding, with a heavy accent. "You want a smoke, ja?"

"No thank you." Apart from a tiny quiver at the end, she managed to keep her tone very polite and steady.

Shrugging, he pulled out a cigarette for himself and proceeded to light up.

Dark, blinding white flashed against the windshield of the automobile. The hulking shapes of trees, only just off the road, were reduced to nothing but formless shadows. The car inched down the road slowly, hesitantly, futilely struggling against the raw power of the blizzard.

The two men in the front seat conversed for a while in German as they consulted a map. The Englishman looked unhappy about something— she couldn't tell what— and suddenly, he stopped the car. A burst of snowflakes and freezing cold wind broke into the interior as he exited his seat, stepping into the blizzard. The General left next, and then the Englishman opened her door. Obediently, she stepped out into the knee-deep snow, even though she was confused and beginning to panic: her pathetic flannel gown, government-issued, did nothing to block out the cold, and she felt already herself freezing.

"Here you go, mein kleines Mädchen," she heard the General say, in his thickly-accented voice, and something heavy fell on her shoulders. He'd given her his coat.

Her eyes lit up with gratitude, but she couldn't find it in herself to thank him. The words were stiff from underuse.

Proffering his arm, he let her lean against her for support as they began to trudge through the snow.

She winced at his touch, but, not wanting to offend him, didn't pull away. "What are we doing?"

"We've arrived, mein Lieber." He smiled at her, somewhat coldly, and then cast his gaze frontwards, sweeping his arm in the direction of the gates she suddenly realised they were approaching. "Welcome to Moulinsart Hall."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, I know I keep some French names (Moulinsart) and not others (Milou). But rest assured: there is a method to my madness (or madness to my method, whichever you prefer.) Basically, I think that the English version is way too anglicised. Tintin is supposed to be Belgian. Marlinspike is supposed to be in Belgium. Belgium is just so_ cute. _So, to give the story a more Belgian feel, I change place names and make Tintin's native language French; at the same time, I would _really _hate to think of Snowy as "Milou." It just doesn't work on him. So that's why I do what I do. I hope that makes sense and that my idiosyncrasies don't bother or confuse anybody; I'm not changing it. Sorry.

**Please review!**


	5. The Body

**Chapter 4**

"I'm not trying to say that they were dead, because they weren't. I was just saying that I _thought _they were dead!"

"Who's dead?" cut in Tintin, sharply.

Calculus was getting irritated. "No, no, not a bit. I just thought they were dead, that's all."

"Great snakes, who?"

Tintin had been edgy all morning. He found himself, not exactly snapping, but being uncharacteristically short with people. He knew it was probably because of those tyre tracks. Thinking about them bothered him half to death. He simply couldn't get them out of his mind...

"Don't worry, I know it now!" said the Professor. "I'm just saying that when I went out this morning—"

"You went out this morning?" interrupted the Captain, with mild interest. He'd just walked in from the breakfast room. He was draped in heavy bathrobes, looking like some over-dressed Greek statue.

"No, to the garden!" Calculus continued. "And as I said, the roses only seemed dead. Very strange for this time of year. They really weren't quite gone… probably in a couple of days, though…" Calculus had responded to the temperature drop by bundling himself a fur coat Castafiore had left in the Charles I suite. It was kind of cute and pathetic, all at the same time.

The blizzard hadn't shown any signs of letting up yet: the mansion was ice cold despite the overworked furnace, and snow cloaked all the windows. Every corner of the old house was darker and colder than usual, and antique furniture was drawn up closer to the fires in an effort to stay warm. Nobody moved from the fireplaces, if possible. The house was silent, drawn in, shut up, isolated.

Haddock breathed onto his raw hands and rubbed them together. "The guests are all taken care of. Taking tea. Sleeping. Or playing cards." It was true; everything was finally calm and organised. Freeh, the German General, was drinking coffee with the American, Vogel. Freeh's chauffer, Bastian Vogt, was playing cards in the staterooms with Hazar Schuuring. The pretty, timid girl— Odette Bienvenue, that was her name— was, as far as they knew, still in bed.

Tintin looked relieved. "_Bon_, I'm glad." He looked up at Haddock. "Do you want to call everybody together for tea?"

"Good idea. Nestor's trying to fire up the furnace some more, can you make tea?"

He nodded. "Sure. I'll get to the kitchen; you congregate our guests."

/

_Welcome to Moulinsart Hall._

She couldn't get the words out of her head. They lingered in her dreams, in her waking mind.

Gingerly raising her head off the pillow, the first thing she noticed was the pale sunlight peeking through the opulent blue drapes, hanging over the paneled bedroom windows. _What time is it?_

Fingering the circular indentations in her wrists where the manacles had been, mere hours before, Odette staggered towards the windows and opened the curtains. Cold December light flooded the room, all but blinding her for the better part of the next minute. The storm had quieted since last night; however, she was fairly certain they wouldn't be leaving this place anytime soon. Squinting, she pulled open the window just a crack, feeling the breeze bite her face and hands. The snow came thick and fast. She couldn't even see outside; it was as if white sheets had been balled up on the other side of the window.

The cold air was finally waking her up; she made her way to a nearby armchair and collapsed into it, trying to catch her breath. The grandfather clock against the far wall said it was 11 AM. She was tired. Even after all this time, she couldn't sleep well.

The smell of toast slowly wafted up to the bedroom door, and it literally made her stomach hurt. Odette hadn't eaten since the morning of the 19th, right before she'd boarded the train. Now it was the 21st.

_Christmas is soon._

She remembered last Christmas. Then, she'd never even heard of him. And she realised that she wished it could've stayed that way.

She heard a knock on her door, and jumped. She found herself glancing about the room, looking for an escape.

_Don't be ridiculous! They're not going to hurt you!_

"Miss Bienvenue?"

It sounded like that Captain, the English sailor. He had seemed kind, last night, in a gruff way. He had reminded her of her father…

"Miss Bienvenue, are you awake?"

Her voice caught in her throat, but she managed to choke out, "Oui… quoi? I mean… what is it?"

"We're taking tea in the drawing room now. Would you care to join us?"

She glanced down at her shabby grey dress, and felt a little embarrassed. "I'm not… um…" She swallowed. She would have to be seen sometime. "Okay," she finished. "I'll be down in a moment."

"Fine. We'll look forward to you being there."

_I doubt it, _she thought.

/

Captain Haddock, along with Hazar Schuuring, Odette Bienvenue, Sebastian Vogt, and General Freeh, were assembled together in the drawing room, a roaring fire behind them and a tray of digestive biscuits in front.

"So, how'd you get the place?" Hazar asked, fingering his cigarette.

This was a story the Captain liked telling: it was a good story, or so he thought; it involved explosions and treasure and vast quantities of rum. Settling back into his chair, he took a drag from his pipe and began. "Well, you'd never believe it, but almost two hundred years—"

Tintin was just entering the room, bearing the tea-tray. He quickly realised where the conversation was going, and plunking the tray on the tabletop, he swooped in. "It's a long story," he cut in brightly. "It belonged to the Captain's ancestor, Francis Haddock, who had treasure that we found and bought the house with." Shooting a look at the Captain, he added expressively, "It's a very long story."

Unlike the Captain, who looked more than irritated, Hazar took Tintin's intervention very calmly. "Oh. Fascinating." He stretched a little, staring down into the lit end of his cigarette. "So… you two live here?"

Tintin said, "Oui. Er. Ja." He blushed. "I mean, yes. Sorry, I forgot which… that is…"

Hazar said, "English will do quite nicely, thank you." _Show-off, _his expression said, which made Tintin redden even further.

Haddock smirked. He'd been peeved by Tintin's interruption, and liked to see Tintin's face turn red like that. Not to mention he always felt a little bit like an idiot whenever Tintin started talking in different languages. It made him feel good whenever Tintin slipped up… not like his self-esteem was lacking, but the boost was still appreciated.

"Anyway." Hazar straightened up a little. "So, you live here by yourselves?"

The Captain nodded sagely. "Sí. I mean, jawel. I mean…" Catching Tintin's glare, he wisely decided to answer Hazar's question normally. "Er, yeah. Well, more or less. My friend Calculus and my manservant Nestor live here too, you just don't, er, see them quite as much."

"Calculus? Cuthbert Calculus? You mean that... that loony who went to the moon? Wait. _Wait._" He laughed disbelievingly. "You're pulling my leg. You mean, you're Haddock. _The _Haddock. And you're Tintin. Heilige moeder, you introduced yourselves last night, but I hadn't even made the connection! The two 'Belgian Heroes'." Hazar paused, looking inbetween the two of them, scornful amusement twisting his mouth into a grin. "The baby reporter and the dipsomaniac lush. What a freak show I've stumbled in to."

The entire room went dead silent. A fork clattered, dropped onto a plate, and that was all.

"That's enough," said Tintin. His voice was calm, but sounded strained.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I know, you're a hero and all that. But honestly, you keep that idiot drunk around the house, why? He's pathetic. I've read the papers. He just gets you into all sorts of—"

"You can stop it right now." He could feel his body going cold.

All eyes were on Tintin and Hazar. Waiting to see what they would do.

"He's pathetic," he repeated, almost apologetically. "He needs a— what, twelve year old?— reporter around to save his skin."

"Tintin, it's okay, you—" Haddock began, but Tintin cut him off.

"I said stop it." He spoke low, through clenched teeth.

Hazar smirked, tilting his head slightly downwards as he took an infuriatingly long sip of tea. "What, what will he do to me? He's a drunk, through and through. You can just see it in his face." Turning to Haddock, he added, shaking his head and grinning, "You're such a drunk. Can you even _see_ straight right—"

His sentence was cut off as Tintin's fist found his jaw.

A muted cry of pain escaping his lips, Hazar fell backwards against the couch, his face the very picture of shock. For a long moment, nobody thought he was going to retaliate, until he leapt to his feet, raised his fists, and went in deep to Tintin's belly with his right hand. Tintin let the air out of his lungs with a large, dry sound; Hazar danced back.

His body was burning, but he ignored the pain with ease that only innumerable fights can give. He shifted position and his feet crossed, left in front of right. Spinning on his left, the right coming up and out, he caught Hazar squarely in the jaw. Hazar tried to throw his wrist at Tintin's solar plexus, but the reporter snaked in and hit him with a short left hook to the head.

They could hear pottery shattering as Hazar flew backwards, stumbling, hitting an end table and upsetting the vase resting on it. Staggering upwards, he made as if to retaliate, but at the last second, fell back against the wall. There was a thin trickle of blood coming from his forehead— not life-threatening, but painful all the same.

"You know, I don't get angry often, but everybody has their limits!" Tintin yelled, his fists clenched and trembling. His quiff seemed to stick up even more, and his face was white with rage. "Vous fluage couché, c'est ma famille!"

"Tintin, Tintin, it's okay," Haddock interrupted, grabbing Tintin by the shoulders, pulling him back. He tried to think of the right words. "Tintin, just… just take it easy…"

The boy didn't try to break free, but he struggled, all the same. "Comment osez-vous insulter!" he shot out. "Comment osez-vous insulter mon ami!"

"Oh, that burns," Hazar panted, painfully crawling into a kneeling position.

"Tintin, sit down!" Haddock hissed.

For a while, nobody said anything. The silence stretched over the course of several moments, the atmosphere growing tighter and tighter, like a rubber band being stretched as far back as it could go. The strain got too much for Tintin; he stormed out of the room. Haddock followed, and after a moment, they could hear the front door slamming.

"This will be an interesting couple of days," Hazar commented dryly.

From the next room, the steady, tapping sound of footsteps on marble came nearer, until they could see Vogel, strolling into the room, a cigarette balanced delicately between two fingers. His face was devoid of any betraying emotion as he surveyed the scene before him, and he took a long drag, letting the smoke slowly curl into the air and fade from inbetween his lips.

"Everybody has their limit," the American echoed.

"I know now." Hazar grinned bitterly, reaching down and pulling a sliver of pottery from his palm. It was a long shard— jagged, and covered with blood. "Heilige moeder… look at that."

"Where were you?" General Freeh asked Vogel sharply. "What have you been doing?"

"You were stupid, Schuuring," Vogel said, bluntly, as he look another long breath from the cigarette. "You pushed him too far."

"Pushed him? What do you mean?" Odette asked, her voice subdued.

"He means nothing." Bastian answered for Hazar, as he leaned back lazily into his chair. "Nothing at all. Anyway, I'm jolly well starving. Tea, anybody?"

Sipping tea and nibbling biscuits, they managed to piece together a friendly atmosphere. Nobody seemed to notice Tintin's absence, nor Haddock's. They acted as if they'd all been guests, invited to tea at the local country mansion.

But they were all very well aware of the tension just beneath the surface.

/

"Tintin, look," Haddock pleaded, gesturing hopelessly at the sky. "Tintin, it's— what Hazar said was true, okay? You save me all the time. And I drink. Who cares? We've both accepted it."

"He was attacking you!" the boy shot back, not facing Haddock, just trudging onward through the snow.

Haddock briefly wondered what he'd ever done to deserve having this bag of nerves in his life. "Look, if anyone should be angry, it should be _me_, by thunder! You're unreasonable!"

"Do I ever do anything unreasonable?"

Tapping a finger against his chin, he pretending to sound pensive. "Hmm, let me think about that."

"He was _attacking _you!" Tintin repeated, wheeling around on him suddenly stamping his foot on the ground, an action that seemed surprisingly childish for someone as mature as he. "He—"

"Tintin, I thundering don't care!"

Tintin's face fell; Haddock could see the muscles in his jaw clench. Eyes trained on the ground, he bit his lip, his ginger brows rutted with rage. "But... I hate it when… when they try to do that…" he muttered. "Make it look like you're just… just a…"

He resisted the urge to groan."A what?"

"A tagalong."

So that's what the problem was. The Captain wasn't exactly flattered, but his anger was quelled. He said, "Tintin, look. I appreciate it. And I'm sorry. But he wasn't hurting me." He sighed, sounding somewhat exasperated. "Hazar wasn't being polite, but I wasn't even that offended. They were just words. You didn't need to last out like that, really. Besides, it makes you look bad."

Grumbling, Tintin resumed walking; the Captain resumed following, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. The storm had abated a bit since the morning, but it was bitter cold, and the sky still almost black with storm clouds.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm just stressed." He stared at the ground as he trudged onward. "Those confounded tyre tracks, I can't get them out of my mind."

"That's no excuse for you fight someone, and then to be tearing out like this, into the stupid storm," he returned, feeling the harsh wind stinging at his nose and ears. He could really use some whisky right now. "What you did was rude, Tintin, and—"

_Wham!_

He bumped into Tintin with a thud, realising too late that the reporter had stopped walking.

"Non," the boy whispered, sounding strangely shaken. "Non, oh Dieu, que Dieu nous aide—!"

The Captain was thoroughly confused. "Well, you weren't being _that _rude…" he said falteringly.

Diving to his knees, Tintin dug his hands into the ground, scraping powdery white away from a black shape buried in the snow.

Suddenly sensing something was wrong— horribly wrong— Haddock went to his side, kneeling in the snow beside him. "Lad, what's wrong?"

"Non, non, ce n'est pas possible…" His gloved hands scrabbled frantically through the snow.

The Captain's heart skipped a beat. Reverting to French— that couldn't be a good sign. "By thunder! What's wrong?"

"Que Dieu nous—"

"Tintin!" He reached forward, grabbing the boy's shoulders; he could feel himself sounding desperate. "For the love of heaven, speak to me in English, lad, what happened?"

"Snakes, Captain, what do you _think_?" Tintin exclaimed, gesturing to the shape he'd been uncovering in the snow. "Look!"

The world seemed to tilt slightly off its axis. With a sickening realisation, the Captain fully understood just what it was he was looking at. He had to grip Tintin's shoulder for support as he slowly stood, backing away. "He's…" He swallowed, almost unwilling to say the words. "By thunder, he's dead."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yeah, I know. This is a somewhat melodramatic instalment. Bear with me…*sigh*… one has to move the plot along somehow. Also, I think that if had been speaking Spanish, but got really upset, I would revert to English pretty much instantaneously. That's why I did that to Tintin.

**Please review! ALSO, out of curiosity, I'd love to know who you think 'dunnit' :)**


	6. Coroner

**Chapter Five**

When Tintin told them about the dead body, there was dead silence. Even Hazar had nothing to say. He searched their expressions for a while, but promisingly enough, nobody looked suspicious. Shocked, even scared, but not suspicious.

He had switched into his reporter voice, the one he used for speaking on the radio. He sounded distant, rather like a man giving a lecture to his employees. "The victim—whoever he is—was killed at around 10 pm on the 19th. Right now it's 10 am and the 21st, so he died about a day and a half ago," he announced, still examining their faces. No guilty looks. Nothing.

"And you know that _how_?" Sebastian yawned, from the chaise-lounge.

Despite the belittling remark, Tintin continued, "Of course, if I happen to be wrong, our friend the Professor is performing an autopsy, and we'll be able to see the cause of his death and whether or not my suspicions are accurate. And of course, once the storm clears up, we'll be taking him to the village. If any of you know anything, speak up; otherwise, we probably don't need to be concerned. I think we can just take it easy until the storm clears." He placed the emphasis on the word _think; _he didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'take it easy.' "Naturally, if not for the storm, the police would be here by now, but we'll have to make due. The Professor is examining the body now. Until then we'll just have to wait. Any questions?"

Everyone stared blankly at him.

"No? Bon, j'ai fini." He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and he could see everybody visibly relax. "I'll be upstairs with Calculus; the Captain will be in the drawing room if you have any questions or concerns. Gentlemen, cooperation is not simply recommended, it is required. I'm sure this matter will be cleared up soon. Thank you for your time."

/

"You let them off pretty easy," said Haddock.

"No, Snowy," Tintin ordered, gently kicking away the dog scampering by his heels. "You can't come with." He turned to the Captain, and Haddock saw an almost anxious look in those grey eyes, clouding them like storm clouds. "I don't want them feeling hunted or cornered. I don't want to get stabbed because someone felt compelled to take precautions."

"Blistering barnacles. You've thought this through." He sounded somewhat impressed; he was well aware that if it had been him, he'd have shouted at each one until they confessed.

"More or less."

"With you, it's usually more." He had to walk quickly to keep up with Tintin's pace as the boy all but ran up the staircase. "But, by thunder, I'm certainly not looking forward to hanging around with that clap-trap gang of carpet-sellers."

"Me neither," the boy admitted. "But don't worry, I'll be downstairs once we're done, and we can 'hang around' them together."

They hurried down the hallway to the left of the grand staircase, to the room where the body had been dragged. Calculus was in there, finishing up the autopsy. It had taken much effort to tell him what was going on and why they were performing an autopsy, but after much shouting, miming, and writing on the part of Tintin and Haddock, he'd seemed to finally grasp what was happening. Tintin didn't exactly relish the thought of staring at a naked dead man, but he wanted to know what was happening. He simply had to. It was the only way he could make sense of all of this.

When they neared the door to the room, Tintin stopped and sighed. running his fingers through his hair. "Excuse me, I have to go. No, Snowy, stay."

"Good luck," said Haddock bleakly.

/

Cuthbert Calculus was no coroner; he wasn't even a medical doctor. But he did have a good deal of medical experience, and seemed like the only person suited for this sort of thing.

Tintin entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. He jumped a little when he saw the pale, bloody, naked body stretched out on the bed, but didn't say anything about it. Trying to appear calm, he held out the Professor's ear trumpet.

"I was looking for this," Calculus exclaimed. "Thank you very much, young man. Put it on the desk." He gestured to a nearby table, swamped with the usual paraphernalia that accompanied medical procedures.

"Sure," Tintin replied, the cheerfulness in his voice his way of trying to mask how disturbed he was by the body lying on the table, only feet away. There was a long, T-shaped incision across his chest, and his ribs were sticking out crookedly. A shiver, along with a faint queasiness, travelled down his spine. "What…er… what have you discovered so far?"

Calculus was holding a scalpel in his hand, looking over the gleaming blade warily. He glanced at the corpse, and replaced the scalpel. His hands being covered with gore, he hadn't put in his ear trumpet yet, and therefore hadn't heard the question. "Take a look at the face. What strikes you?"

Bending over a little, Tintin studied the features of the man's face. He didn't like it. The dead man was old, perhaps in his late fifties. He had tufty grey hair, a moustache, blue eyes, and what was perhaps a hooked nose; it was crushed in, however, and Tintin couldn't be sure of the shape. Apart from that, you could hardly tell what he looked like. His face was cratered with bruises, not to mentioned blackened from lying in snow for the past two days.

"He's… er… bruised," Tintin observed weakly.

"No, he's bruised. All over. There's also some significant bruising around the throat, too. But that's not what did it; no, there's a bullet a few inches below the right infraclavicular fossa. Take a look."

Obediently, Tintin snapped on a pair of rubber medical gloves, dribbled carbolic acid from a bottle onto his fingers, and gently prodded the bullet wound with a probe, and then his fingertips. He noticed the bullet was just below the right collarbone; his murderer must've been a bad aim. Well, it had been night-time.

He slowly straightened, wiped the gore off his gloves onto a rag, and was about to as Calculus about when the man had died, when something caught his eye—a kind of pale film over his face. Curious, he swiped at it, and it came off on his fingertip. It looked almost like… like…

"Stage makeup," he murmured. He paused, trying to think through this new development. It didn't really make sense. He had an idea, suddenly; his forehead furrowing just a bit, Tintin reached forward and gingerly tugged at the moustache. It came off in his hand, and hung there like a dead furry caterpillar. "He was dressing up." Swallowing his disgust, he placed the thing on the tabletop. "Pretending to be somebody."

"Hmm. How do you mean?" The Professor's voice droned absently from the other side of the room, as he gingerly pulled off his pair of gloves. Tintin noted that he was holding up the ear trumpet now.

The boy shook his head softly, his ginger brows knitted together broodingly. "I don't know… I don't know why he'd do it."

"Well, it probably doesn't matter much anyway."

"Probably not," he replied. It was a lie. His mind was spinning, coming up with all the ways that it could, and probably did, matter. "How long has he been dead?"

"Perhaps 30 hours."

"Er, right. I suppose he was assaulted before he was shot."

"Most likely."

"Discovered anything else important?"

"You can check the report; it's there on the desk."

After removing his gloves, Tintin walked towards the desk, rubbing more antiseptic into his hands. It wasn't that he was squeamish or bacteriophobic; he'd seen loads of dead bodies, dozens, and probed them without so much as washing his hands afterwards. But something seemed so disgusting about the body being here, in Moulinsart, that he couldn't help but feel dirty. He needed a shower.

The report was short, and contained the usual stuff when it came to autopsies. Height, weight, gender, any abnormalities concerning the organs—he was a drinker, but that was it—whether or not there were bruises or tears in the genital region, and then finally, birthmarks and such. It wasn't until Tintin was reading the report that he learned the man had a tattoo on his shoulder. He went back to the body, asked Calculus not to cover it just yet, and looked at the arm. Sure enough, he had a tattoo; four words in Gothic script, curling around the deltoid muscle. In the dim light, it was hard to see what it said, but he slowly sounded it out.

"Meminit… Non ut… Mundus."

"He remembers, so that the world won't."

Tintin looked up slowly, his hands clamping around the report.

The professor stepped closer, adjusting his glasses. "That's what it says. I assume it's religious… 'He' is referring to God, ergo, God remembers my sins, so that the world—"

"Can forget," Tintin finished. "Referring to salvation, I presume." He looked at the tattoo thoughtfully. "But I think… I know I've seen this before…"

Calculus had removed his ear trumpet and placed it on the desk; he didn't hear Tintin's last statement. "I'm feeling rather peckish; let's go back down for tea. All done?" When Tintin nodded, he took a blanket and covered up the body. "Now, all done," the Professor said. "Let's go back down."

/

Sitting in the parlour, Tintin sipped at his tea mechanically, staring at the window as if his gaze extended no further than the glass.

It was all so wrong, he thought. This had never happened at Moulinsart before. His home was supposed to be safe. It was the one place in the world where this sort of thing never happened. He didn't _want _a mystery here. He didn't want a dead man in the upstairs. And furthermore, he didn't want to celebrate the most sacred time of the year trapped with five strangers—not to mention, any one of whom could be a murderer.

Snowy appeared in the doorway, and Tintin's heart lifted as the dog scampered towards him and ran his tongue all over his face. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel as if he was trying to ignore reality and pretend that life was normal, when things were becoming so obviously messed up. He noticed Snowy's fur was wet and cold, and tiny white crystals clung to his wiry white coat.

"What happened to you?" he asked, laughing softly. "Yeah? Qu'est-ce qui vous est arrivé, mon petit ami?"

Snowy sneezed in response. Putting his paws on Tintin's chest, he licked his nose, and, turning his head, barked in the direction of the door.

Odette was standing there. She looked every bit as dishevelled as the dog; her mouse-brown hair was dotted with snowflakes, and her face was flushed. She jolted when she realised Tintin was looking at her, and, smoothing down her dress, stammered, "He… er… tried to go outside. I found him, you see. But he's safe now." She sounded flustered, and quickly turned her back to him, already beginning to close the door.

"Don't go!" Tintin called, looking up from his pet.

She turned around somewhat stiffly, refusing to meet his gaze. "What is it?"

He suddenly wasn't sure _why_ he stopped her, and stared blankly at his dog for a few moments, trying to remember what he'd been thinking when he'd asked her to stay. "Er… you went out in that?" He nodded towards her thin grey dress. "That looks like it's meant for summer."

"It's all I have," she began, sounding somewhat affronted.

Hearing the tone in her voice, he backtracked rapidly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense. It's a lovely dress. But, er, do you want more clothes? Really, it's too cold to be wearing that. I don't know if we have anything meant for women here—except Castafiore's fur coat, but the Professor's not likely to give that up— but I can try to find you something."

"You don't have to," she murmured.

"It's no problem, really." He stroked the top of Snowy's head lightly, and chuckled as the dog's tongue found his face. "If it comes down to it, you can always have my clothes. Would you like me to do that? How tall are you? 5'6? We're probably about the same height. I wouldn't mind. Honest. It's no trouble at all," he added softly, seeing the mixture of fear and indecision on her face; he was attempting to sooth whatever hunted animal hid beneath her face. He smiled innocently; his best weapon was his smile, and he wielded it shamelessly. "Come on. I don't mind at all."

She wavered for a long moment, and the young reporter found her hesitancy compelling. What must be going through her mind? What would cause her to be afraid of saying _yes_ to something as simple as this? She certainly looked like she wanted, at least needed, new clothes; she must be absolutely freezing.

Still hesitant, Odette finally nodded, her brown curls bouncing with the motion. "Okay," she murmured. "If it's no trouble."

"None at all." He smiled again and took her by the arm. "Come on, I'll show you my wardrobe."

The moment he touched her, she jerked away. Her eyes were wide, her expression frantic; she was looking at him like he had been trying to rape her.

Tintin wasn't sure whether to be saddened or offended. Fighting to keep the cheerful expression on his face, he quickly drew back, giving her space. "I'll be right back," he finally said, and left the room.

/

"They're playing cards in the drawing room," said Sebastian Vogt to the General.

"Sind sie das," Freeh muttered, disinterestedly. "Are they, now."

"Are you going to join?"

He took a sip of coffee, frowned, and reached for the bottle of beer of the tabletop. "Well, I know you're not," he said calmly, pouring the alcohol into his coffee. He took another sip and smiled. It was a lemon-sucking smile.

Bastian groaned quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Pacing back and forth, he circled the General, staring down at the ground. "But I'd win! You know I would!"

"Would you win 6 million Reichsmarks?"

The boy froze, his expression hardening. "You can bloody belt up about that," he growled. There was a threatening undertone to his voice.

"You can bloody learn to talk to me respectfully."

"Just because I splashed out—"

"Hold your tongue."

Bastian glared at the General for a long moment, before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Freeh fought to hide his smirk.

/

A couple minutes later, Tintin made his way down the stairs, holding a pair of trousers, a sunny dress shirt, undershirt, and leather jacket. He was almost at the door when he heard something that pulled him short. Odette was playing with Snowy. He could hear her giggling softly, the sound blending in with Snowy's playful yips and whines. Tintin stood at the doorway for a moment, watching as the dog clambered over her, licking her face, gently pawing at her brown locks. Feeling like he was trespassing, he turned and put his back to the wall outside, where he couldn't be seen. He had a sudden feeling that if he stepped in, he would shatter whatever joy she was feeling right now.

"Vous adorable petit chien!" she was saying, and he could hear Snowy yipping like crazy. She didn't sound scared at all, not like before. She sounded like she was truly having fun. She sounded happy.

A cold wind drifted through the hall, and he shivered. It was then that he remembered his mission. He stealthily snuck back to the staircase and made his way from there to the door, his footsteps exaggeratedly loud.

When he entered the room, she froze. He tried to ignore it.

"Miss Bienvenue!" He kept his voice cheerful, even though it was hurting him to see that hunted look back on her face. "I hope you don't mind wearing pants," he continued, holding up the clothes he'd selected. "It's all the craze in the States, anyway. Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn… all the female celebrities are pulling it off."

Taking the clothes from him, Odette looked slightly incredulous. "How on earth do you know that?"

He shrugged. "I'm a reporter," he said simply.

"You report on women's fashion?"

"Snakes, no. But I read a lot of newspapers. You wouldn't believe the junk that's churned out every day. Of course, things are getting interesting lately. You know, with Hitler taking over Germany, and the persecution of the Jews and what have you. And murder trials are always interesting. Usually it's some crazy wife poisoning her husband. Reminds me of a speech Winston Churchill made recently. I guess it didn't reflect England very well, but it was amusing; there was this woman who told him…"

"You talk about it like it doesn't affect you." Her voice was strained.

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not English."

"I meant the Jews. And the murders. You talk about it like it's just… like it's just a story. Like some novel. But it's not." She looked pained to talk about it.

"I know," he said, sobering. "It's downright awful. Especially the Jews—poor wretches."

"Don't let Freeh hear you." She smiled shyly. "He's a German."

He returned her smile. "I'll remember that." They looked at eachother awkwardly for a few moments, until he remembered why he was talking to her in the first place. "Anyway, here it is—pants, shirt, undershirt, jacket. Why don't you go back to your room and get changed, and tell me how it fits?"

"I'll do that," she promised. Halfway out the door, she paused and turned around. "Er… monsieur… how did the autopsy go?"

"We didn't learn too much… it only confirmed such suspicions I had earlier."

"Oh." Surprisingly, she didn't ask what the suspicions were; she only nodded in thanks and headed out the door.

Hands in pockets, he watched her go. Shaking his head, he went back to the couch, and resumed staring out the window.

He wondered where he'd seen that tattoo before.

* * *

**Author's Note(s):**

**1. **My depictions of Calculus here are probably grossly OOC—I mean, Calculus the _coroner?—_but he just seemed the most qualified out of all of them to be coroner for the day. :) Furthermore, whenever he has an ear-trumpet in, he does acts pretty different, so... maybe he isn't being _that _OOC. Whatever.

**2.** The plot isn't moving quite as quickly as I would've hoped, but don't worry! Good things come to those who wait.

**3. **A review would make my day. Just so you know.


	7. A Game of Cards

**Chapter 6**

Freeh stood at the window, staring at the blank wall of white that smothered the glass. It was late evening, he guessed, though it was hard to tell. His hands were crossed pensively behind his back, right fingers gripping left wrist. It was cold in here. The bitter December wind seemed to find him, no matter where he went in this confounded hall. He wrapped his military jacket tighter around himself and shivered.

He had done this before, he thought.

He thought about then. The days spent trudging through endless wilderness, starving. The endless cold. The voices from the Generals surrounding then… barking out orders… on and on and on…

Dragging his hand over his face, he groaned softly and reached for his cigarette case. He pulled one out and lit up. The familiar scent of cigarette calmed him, somehow; it seemed to tell him that, no matter what was happening, some things in life were still the same. They were what they had been.

_Idiot; you know nothing's the same._

His eyes wandered to the window once more, and he sighed heavily, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Vogt was a fool, he thought. They all were. Bleeding fools, the lot of them. They were foolish enough to believe him. But if it worked out in his favour, who was he to complain?

No, he wouldn't tempt fate by complaining.

_You've made it this far, _he reminded himself. _Luck's on your side._

But what about that body? It would put people on their guard, he knew that. And that could only harm him.

He absently wondered what his chauffer was doing. Probably playing cards. He groaned again, and fell into the chair, tossing his cigarette on the floor. The fool… the absolute fool. He should fire the man…

_But you perfectly well know you can't._

/

"Chip in," said Hazar.

Vogt glanced down at the wallet on his lap, thumbing through bills nervously as he tried to gain time.

"Chip in." His voice was annoyed, almost angry, as he repeated the words.

After a long, tense silence, Bastian, muttering angrily, finally threw a wad of 1 franc notes on the table. "My ante," he announced stiffly.

The three of them—Hazar, Vogt, and Bastian—looked at the pile of cash in the centre of the table. It amounted to about 20 francs. It wasn't a huge amount, not enough to drain anybody's bank account, but it could pay the bills for a few days.

"Perfect." It was Vogel who'd spoken. He didn't wait for a reply. Holding up the stack of cards, he began dealing.

They looked over their hands, each glancing furtively up at eachother, but maintaining perfect poker faces with expertise that only endless practice can give.

"See or call," said Hazar, and the game began.

/

"I'll raise," Hazar announced, dropping a crumpled stack of notes in the pile.

"Blimey." Vogt shook his head in amazement, gnawing on his cigarette. "Where the b—bloody blazes do you get this money, old boy?"

"You wish you knew," he returned glibly, flicking his pale bangs from his eyes. He poured himself a glass of whisky and leaned back, sipping at it, self-satisfied as ever.

Vogt was observing his hand impassively. With the carefulness of a surgeon removing a bullet, he slowly took three cards from his hand and placed them on the table. "Draw," he said.

"Yeah, whatever." Throwing his head back, Hazar gulped down another mouthful of whisky.

"I say, g—good whisky, this," Vogt observed, pouring himself his third cup. He tipped the contents into his mouth, relishing the smoothness over his tongue. He hiccupped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Tell me about it," Hazar said smoothly.

In the background, the clock struck 9 pm. They'd been playing for a while, Vogt thought. Far too long. They went around again, raising bets, drawing cards. Over the past hour or os, the money had been increased to 89 francs. Vogt couldn't help but feel anxiety slowly crawling through his spine, clawing into his cut. He knew he would win. He _always _won. But still… 89 francs was more than could make in months…

"So, about that body..." he asked, trying to stall for time.

"Odette?" A gleeful look appeared in Hazar's eyes.

"What the... who's do you think? The one outside. The dead man. And I thought you had a lady friend already, Schuuring."

"What? Geerte?" He stared at Bastian for a total of five seconds before breaking out into snickering. "She's just a... just... yeah."

"But who do you think did this?" Vogel suddenly asked, trying to redirect the conversation to it's previous topic.

"I'm guessing the murder was done by one of us."

Eyebrows raised, Vogt glanced at Hazar in surprise. "Why do you say that?"

"When you've been around like I have… you get to know what a guilty man looks like, let me tell you." He slapped three cards on the table and took a gulp of whisky. "That reminds me of… well, it must've been almost a year ago..."

Bastian wasn't interested. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and said, in a stage whisper, "I think… I think it was the General."

Hazar laughed. "You're just sick of working for him."

"S—so what if I am?" He looked annoyed. "I know him better than _you _do. Anyway, who are _you_ p—putting your money on?"

"Fold," Vogel suddenly declared, laying his cards flat on the table. "I quit."

"What?" Bastian's jaw slackened. The cigarette drooped dangerously from between his lips. The body was forgotten. "You can't j—just _leave."_

Dusting off his suit coat, Vogel stood, not looking any of them in the eye. "I like my money."

"You're a c—coward!"

"Yeah, well: you're stupid."

Flinging the cigarette to the floor, he leapt to his feet, hands curled around the whisky bottle. He lifted it by the neck, about to launch it at Vogel's retreating figure, when Hazar stopped him.

"Vogt, it's just a game," he said, hands gripping Vogt's shoulders. "Calm down, _stomme dronkaard_."

"G—get your f—flaming hands off me!" he yelled. "It's 78 b—bloody francs!"

"You're drunk, man." Lip curled with disgust, Hazar snatched the bottle of whisky out of Vogt's grasp, holding it far behind his back. "You've had enough tonight."

"Give that back! Curse you, give it _back!"_

/

"Did you hear that?" It was Tintin; he'd just come into the room and looked as if he'd been hurrying. There was a look of concern etched across his face, furrowing his brow.

"It's Vogt yelling," replied the Captain calmly. "He's playing poker."

"Oh. I see." He shuffled from one foot to another, looking like something was still bothering him. "I don't… suppose we should, er, check it out?"

"Naaah, I doubt it. Wait for them to shout themselves hoarse first, and then we can intervene."

Tintin blinked. "Er… right." Well, the Captain would know more about that then he would.

/

Nursing a black eye and a wounded dignity, Vogt staggered drunkenly up the staircase, voice slurring as he muttered curses. The lights were out upstairs; the only light in the hallways were what had drifted up from the stairs. Everything seemed dark and narrow. Paintings hung from the walls, oil faces staring at him; the doors stood stationary, as if waiting for something.

He located Vogel's room quickly—the third to the left—and knocked on the door. No reply. Still mumbling to himself, he twisted the handle and stepped in, slamming the door shut behind him.

Immediately the room was silent, pitched black, wrapped in an unearthly blanket of oblivion that seemed to resist any outside contact. He could hear wind moaning, trying to break through the windows, slight cracking and shaking noises coming from heaven knew where. The only source of paleness in the entire room came from flecks of snow, only half-visible in the blackness, briefly blowing against the windows before disappearing into nothingness.

"Vogel?" Vogt slurred, reeling drunkenly. "Come on, you c—coward! I bloody well know y—you're in here."

There was no reply. Swearing under his breath, he staggered onward. He wished he knew where the light switch was. It didn't seem to be anywhere, though. He walked forward, hands pressed against the walls; his groping hands finally touched some sort of knob, and he pushed it. It wasn't until the third try that he realised it was just part of the bulls-eye moulding. He swore and kept on going.

A quiet part of him told him to go back, to open the door, to let light and the world back into the room, but drunkenness and pride overrode reason and he continued onward, searching for the light switch.

There didn't seem to be one.

Vogt could hear each of his footsteps dragging on the hardwood floor as he slowly stumbled through the room. His eyes tried to adjust to the lightlessness, but they refused. Every sound seemed magnified by the darkness and silence enveloping the room. He'd stepped into an entirely different world, he thought; some sort of silent hallucination, so different from the dream of brightly-lit reality. _It's like something from that stupid radio drama, War of the Worlds, _he thought, and was immediately pleased with himself for making the connection.

He could only just make out the hulking forms of old furniture; in the corner, what must've been a chair rocked back and forth, slowly, with the faintest scraping sound as the wood rubbed against the floor. A faint breeze, from the window, brushed the scarlet curtains, and they rose gently into the air, drifting back and forth. A wind chime from somewhere outside jangled for just a moment, and then stilled.

Guessing he just had to goad Vogel into fighting, he shouted, "You're a pathetic—"

His voice broke off jaggedly as pain shot into his hip. He swore loudly, staggering back from the table he'd bumped into. He hadn't realized that sort of thing would hurt so much.

Gritting his teeth, he said, "Vogel, come on! Where are you?"

No reply.

Something was off, he realised. Like music changing mid-phrase. He couldn't place it, but it was _off._

His heartbeat seemed to slow. Time seemed to slow. Dread clenched at his gut, coiling up inside of him. It was like he was a child again, suddenly, unreasonably, afraid of the dark. Fear had snuck up softly, like a beast tracking an unsuspecting hunter; he hadn't felt it until now, but now that he'd seen the beast, there was no ignoring it. He was terrified.

Stumbling towards the door, tripping over furniture, he ran, feeling a thin sheen of sweat breaking over his face. He didn't know where Vogel was, and didn't care. He was going. He was getting out of here. Reaching for the doorknob, he yanked it to the side.

"Bloody…"

He tried it again. But it didn't work.

The door was locked.

Sebastian became slowly aware of the slow, steady breathing, coming from behind him.

/

"Have you seen Monsieur Vogt?" Tintin asked.

Haddock glanced up at him, flipping a page in his newspaper. "Bastian? Er… come to think of it, no, I haven't." He shrugged. "I think he's playing cards in the drawing room."

"The drawing room's empty."

It took a couple moments for this to sink in. Slowly raising his head, he stared past Tintin, searching his brain for where Bastian might've gone. Nothing came up. "Is it?" he asked cautiously.

Tintin nodded, and a ghost of anxiety flitted over his otherwise calm expression. "I've asked everyone. Nobody knows where he is."

/

Bastian's breath hitched in his throat. Every heartbeat seemed out of time, dragging, clunking liked dated machinery. Everything in him screamed to turn, but he couldn't, he couldn't force his legs to move.

Another sound came through the darkness. The familiar slap of cards being placed on wood.

"I'm… I'm going to scream," he stammered, forcing the words out. He ran his tongue over his lips, wetting them, preparing to do what he'd threatened to.

"You'd be sorry."

He'd expected Vogel's voice, but it wasn't him. The voice was neither male nor female— it was simply cold and thin, like melting ice.

His voice quavered, despite the cocky façade he was trying to plaster over it. "Yeah, well, nobody can sh—shoot in the dark." He was aware of the lie even as he said it. _They know differently, _he thought. _They know. _A lump formed in his throat that he couldn't swallow away as he backed against the door, feeling the doorknob beneath his hand, twisting, hoping against hope that he could somehow escape.

The cards kept on slapping on the table. Slapping, one after another.

Feeling strangely defeated, Sebastian inched towards the table and slumped onto the chair. It was then that he noticed the deck of cards laid out for him.

The form in front of him reached out, pushing the top card towards him. For some reason, he didn't want to see it. It was like it was a tarot card, and he didn't want to know what his future held.

The hand pushed the card further.

He knew he had to obey.

_Stop shaking! _He screamed at his fingers, but they refused to comply. He could barely keep the card in his hand as he turned it over. He couldn't make out the colour, but he could count the spades on the front

"It's… it's a 7. Spades."

The other's hand reached out, also drawing a card. The hand held it up. It was a 5.

He heard a click, but he wasn't sure what it was. But for some reason, it seemed like a good thing. He swallowed, brushing his fingers towards the next card, and finally flipped it over. "Queen," he said.

The card felt cold against his sweating palms. The thought of running no longer crossed his mind. Somehow, he knew that would only result in worse punishment.

There was a slight pause—a momentary hesitation. But the hesitation wasn't from fear. No, they were relishing the moment. They held, too up a Queen.

_God help me, _he thought.

From the direction of the stranger, came the sound of a revolver's chamber spinning. At first, Bastian was just confused; then he understood what was happening. A tiny yelp of fear escaped his lips as he felt the muzzle against his forehead, but he didn't try to fight. There was another, longer pause.

It was only a few seconds, but it felt like eternity.

The trigger clicked.

He let out his breath in a slow, shaky stream. He was alive.

And then, _Slap, _went the cards.

What _was_ this? Russian Roulette? Gambling? War? Something designed simply to scare him? To _kill _him? It was like—like he was gambling for his own life. Clenching the arms of his chair, he choked, "What in the—" But his throat was to tight to even finish the sentence.

A scream was building its way up in Sebastian's throat, with all of the panic surging in his heart pushing behind it, but the only thing that came out was a strangled whimper. He wanted to get out, out of this chair, but he knew that if he did, he'd be dead in an instant.

"Please…" he choked. He couldn't get the words out. He moistened his lips and tried again. "Stop."

_Slap._

"What did I do to you?"

_Slap. _And then the fingers reached out, pushing the card towards him.

/

Something was wrong.

It wasn't obvious, but Tintin felt it. A dull anxiety clawed through his gut, eating at him. One glance at the Captain, and he knew the feeling was shared.

They were in the drawing room, and for the first time, really felt the fact that they were alone. That anybody could be doing anything, and they wouldn't know it.

"Where's Vogel?" Haddock asked sharply.

"Where's anyone?"

Biting his lip, Tintin frowned, looking up at Haddock. "Let's split up. I'll look downstairs, you search the bedrooms."

He looked like he wanted to disagree, but after a moment, just nodded. "Okay. Be careful."

With that, the two of them began running almost instantly.

They both had the sickening feeling that they were about to be too late.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I have _never _played poker before; I was writing purely from a wikiHow article that was, well, less than satisfactory. If any of you card players out there see a mistake, let me know!

Special thanks to my friend (you know who you are) for helping me with the moment when Vogt enters the room. I was so stumped... :P

Reviews, as always, are incredibly appreciated. You honestly have no idea _how _appreciated, and since it would take pages for me to say how much, just know that they are, indeed, appreciated.


	8. He Wanted to Warn Us

**Chapter 7**

The third door was locked.

Haddock's breath caught in his throat as he yanked at the door knob again, as if a second try would reveal it had been unlocked all along.

Was that his imagination? Or was that a moan coming from the room?

"Tintin." Somehow it came out as a mere whisper. He wet his lips and try again. "Ti— Tintin! Up here! Tintin, up here!"

All of a sudden, the lights in the Hall flickered. He jumped. In a matter of moments, they were shining steadily again, but his heart was still racing. He could feel sweat tricking down his forehead, despite the accursed cold.

The sound of Tintin's running feet, somewhere on the first floor, finally met his ears. The lad was running, but he couldn't have been coming fast enough— it was an eternity before he arrived.

The young reporter dashed into the hallway, to see Haddock pressed against the door, twisting the knob for all he was worth.

"Help me force it open!" The Captain's voice was a desperate bark. "Don't just stand there!"

They didn't stop to examine the possibility that Vogt was simply drunk, passed out in, for whatever reason, Vogel's bedroom. Fully expecting the worst, as experience had taught them to, they faced the door, shoulders angled towards the thin wood.

"One!" roared Haddock, glaring down the door.

"Two," Tintin murmured.

"Three!"

They hit the door.

With a crash, it fell open; the wood around the lock splintered and a jagged hole replaced the smooth oak panelling that had been there before.

_Cold, _was Tintin's first thought. Rushing wind and flurries of snowflakes swept into the room from the open window, rendering the entire room bitter and freezing.

_Blood, _was his second. He could smell it on the air—the sweet, metallic scent that always lingers around dead bodies.

They stood there, staring at the darkness in front of them. No Vogt. No murderer. Nothing. They couldn't see anything at all.

"There has to be a light switch," Haddock muttered, stepping into the room.

But Tintin lingered behind, unwilling to enter. His heartbeat had fallen into an unsteady rhythm; he could feel it thudding tremulously in his chest.

_Drip._

Like a deer hearing gunfire, his head whipped up, his body tensed. He stared in the direction of the sound, but couldn't see anything.

"Captain?"

"Just a second… have to find the light…"

_Drip._

_"_Captain…" Tintin swallowed, trying to force his voice into a steady tone. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" He paused, and Tintin could hear his hands scrabbling at the walls. "Some blackguard covered up the switch… half a mo… there!"

Their turned around, just in time to see another crimson droplet splatter on the floor.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_No,_ Tintin thought. His body seemed to have gone limp. His knees weakened. He could barely keep himself upright. Swallowing down the sickness that was rising inside of him, he took an unsteady step backwards, falling against the Captain.

Sebastian's body lay, tilted back against the back of the armchair, a black hole in the centre of his forehead. Blood trickled down his face, streaking the paleness of his skin, dribbling onto the wooden floor with each steady drip. The floor surrounding was splattered with crimson; the chair with shreds of bloody grey.

You could still see the shock on his face. He hadn't seen it coming any more than the two of them had.

_Drip._

Snowy backed away, whimpering.

Haddock said, "What in the flaming thunder..." His voice broke off before he could finish the sentence.

Cautiously, they walked forward, keeping their footsteps soft on the ground, like hunters approaching the prey.

_Alright. Take it easy._ _You're not a reporter right now: you're a detective. Think like a detective. What happened here?_

Once he got to the table, he stopped and took in the scene before him. The table Bastian was sitting at had two neat stacks of cards, one on either side, placed in front of the two chairs straddling the table.

"Russian roulette?" Haddock asked.

Tintin barely heard. His eyes intently searched for clues, flitting from object to object. Next to the stack of cards opposite Bastian was a revolver—empty, Tintin noticed—but the revolver next to the bloody corpse still had five bullets.

Shaking his head, he rested his chin on the back of his fist, staring at the scene. Sebastian seemed to stare back. His hazel eyes were wide and blank. Looking almost straight at him.

He felt a shiver go down his spine.

"Suicide?" The Captain's tone was openly bleak. He knew every bit as well as Tintin that this was no suicide.

"No. That's what's frightening about this." He passed a hand over his eyes, as if he could block out the memory of the corpse, as well as the sight. "They _could've _made it look like that. Roulette or suicide. They could've taken out all the bullets, taken the cards and second revolver—instead of leaving it all there for the world to see—and closed the window. All wrapped up, nice and neat, thank you. Even we would've attributed it to a unfortunate round of Russian roulette, nothing more. Considering Vogt, you know. We'd have swallowed it."

"If the notion wasn't so thundering ridiculous, I'd think he committed suicide and somebody set it up to look like murder."

"But _why?_" His voice was strained as he gazed at the scene, his eyes wandering from the revolver, to the cards, to the gore puddling on the floor. "Why would someone do this?"

"How do you think they did it?"

Tintin was silent.

"Looks like they were having Vogt think he was gambling for his life… but were really just playing with him." Haddock pulled his lips tight. "You know, with the two… two revolvers. One loaded, one empty."

"They wanted him to suffer," Tintin murmured. "To think that chance could be on his side, when he was doomed the entire time."

They looked in silence for a little while longer, until Haddock touched Tintin lightly on the arm. "Lad, let's head out."

"But—"

"We'll tell the guests tomorrow morning." He lifted a hand, signalling he wouldn't harbour any argument. "It's almost 11 at night. You haven't slept since you saw those confounded tyre tracks. We can work through this tomorrow."

He wanted to argue, but he knew there wasn't any reason, and agreed instead. They exited the bedroom, and each breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed, blocking off the sight of the body within.

Slouching against the doorframe, Haddock sighed, pulling out his pipe and looking it over. "When I was at sea, I remember an old shipmate of mine telling me about this shark that would tear up the bodies of sea animals and leave them where people would go to fish. Could've just eaten them. But he didn't."

He looked at Haddock tiredly, but questioningly. "Why'd it do that?"

"It wanted to let them know that it was the shark's grounds, not theirs. What I'm trying to say is, he or she _could've _made us think that Vogt killed himself. But he didn't want to. He wanted to warn us. Threaten us. Scare us."

"It's possible…" he admitted; he dwelt on the thought for a moment, and then rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Crumbs, Captain…" Shaking his head, he laughed a little hopelessly. "I'm much too tired to think about that right now."

"You go on to bed. I'll hold down the fort."

"Thanks." He half-turned, about to leave for his bedroom, when he felt Haddock's hand on his shoulder. He paused, biting his lip, and looked back up in Haddock's direction.

"Tintin—it's alright." The Captain's forehead was creased with worry, but Tintin could see the ghost of a paternal, sympathetic smile on his lips. "You know that, right?"

He didn't. He didn't know it was alright. In fact, everything seemed downright _not_ alright. But he couldn't just say that. He wasn't willing to open himself up like that, not right now, when he already felt so incredibly vulnerable. So he gave Haddock his best quiet smile and just said, "I know."

The Captain look at him for a long moment, his ice-blue eyes uncomfortably penetrating, all too aware of the disquiet Tintin was fighting to cover. And then he sighed. His whole body seemed to go limp, like a marionette that had just been cut from its strings. "Okay."

Muttering thanks, Tintin turned around and walked into his bedroom.

His steps seemed to lag; the hand that closed and locked the bedroom door felt tired, almost wilting. His youth had finally caught up to him. He felt 16, which had never happened before—of course, he had never been this shaken before. He'd come seconds away from death on more than one occasion, and that was always unsettling, but when that happened he could do something about it—at least, someone would; Divine intervention had a way of making an appearance in those sorts of situations. But now it was too late. They were already dead. He couldn't do anything about it. And that was what was troubling.

He knew Haddock was shaken, too; he was pretty sure the man would be soaking himself in whisky soon. He couldn't say he blamed him; the more he thought about it, the better the thought got. Before he knew what he was doing, he was opening his dresser drawer and pulling out the small flask of whisky he kept, reserved for emergencies—i.e. trying to get the Captain to do something really, really stupid. He felt like this was a good time for being stupid. Like drowning himself. That was a good, stupid idea. His lips were already on the rim when he finally thought better of it and put the bottle down. He was above resorting to a drug to help fix his problems, he knew that. But he couldn't say it wasn't tempting.

Stretching—every muscle felt stiff—Tintin got to his feet and rested his elbows on the top of his dresser. He found himself staring at the mirror at the top. Even in the dark, he could see it clearly. His eyes searched every part of his face. The dark circles beneath his eyes, and how they contrasted with the stark whiteness of his face. The hair at his forehead in a permanent peak, like the wind had picked it up and forgotten to put it back down. His storm-grey irises, and the years of maturity they held that his body refused to show.

The world knows my face, he thought. What do they see me as?

_A hero. A saviour. Innocent. Brave. Selfless. Incorruptible._

_But two men died, both metres away from me, and I did nothing to save them. I wasn't bound and gagged, or held at gunpoint. I was drinking tea. Tea, while they died in my own home._

It wasn't a statement on his character, he knew that. If he hadn't known it was happening, there was no honest-to-goodness reason how he _could _have intervened. But it still hurt. It hurt to know he did nothing.

_The world knows who I am. But who am I if I can't save people?_

Bleakly, Tintin stared at his reflection for a long time, as if he could find the answer there. He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and reach for the rosary inside. Like the salty smell of the sea, there seemed to be some sort of comforting, domestic familiarity about it. Letting his eyelids drift shut, he ran his fingers over the beads, feeling the smooth, well-worn surface roll back and forth beneath his fingertips.

"Pater noster," he began huskily, "qui es in caelis…"

* * *

**Author's Note:** If you read the original French comics, Tintin is actually a somewhat devout Catholic, which is why I have no problem imagining him praying with a rosary/praying at all.

I was originally going to post that I'm studying for the PSAT right now and won't be updating for a while. However, this afternoon my mother *tentatively* diagnosed me with strep throat (and tendinitis, though that's not as concerning), so I might be able to stay home for the next week, in which case, expect many, many updates. :)

**Reviews? *hopeful smile***


	9. An Indication of Guilt

**Chapter 8**

**December 22****nd**

_How to say this?_ The words pulsed over and over in Tintin's mind as he walked swiftly down the hallways, the pounding of his feet matching the racing of his heart. _How to tell them without getting a knife in my back?_

Vogel, Hazar, Odette, Freeh: it was one of them, he knew that now. A murderer. When he said it, one of them would be shrinking inside, their heart pounding, watching him, waiting for the right moment when they could come up behind him and pull the trigger.

If this was Borduria, Peru, Sondonesia, he wouldn't be nervous at all. He'd have a gun in his hand, Snowy and Haddock at his side; he'd be willing and able to tear down anyone that so much as threatened him or his friends. But not in Moulinsart Hall. Not when every person here would spend the entire time pretending to be someone they weren't, pretending to be nice and innocent, and Tintin couldn't imprison them or gag them or shoot them. He would pretend to be their friend, and then, when he wasn't looking—

No, he certainly wasn't cut out for this kind of game.

He looked down at the paper in his hand. It was crumpled, slightly stained with old, dried blood. Calculus had pressed it into his hand that morning. _I forgot to give this to you, _he'd said. _It was on the dead man's body. You might, er, want to take a look at it._

The young reporter paused before pushing open the double doors to the drawing room. He stood there, hands braced against each door, his head hanging between his tensed shoulders.

_Come on. Get it over with._

Drawing a heaving breath, he walked forward, thrusting the doors open as he went.

The murmured voices stopped entirely as he entered the room. His let his gaze drift from face to face, searching, as if he could read a confession in their mere expressions. They stared back—accusatory—confused—frightened—probing.

Tintin looked haggard, and he knew it. Every bone in his body felt like a limp rubber band. He hated this. He liked a good adventure, but this wasn't an adventure. This was… this was something else entirely. It wasn't until he saw the Captain, sitting at the back of the room, that he had his usual strength back.

Haddock gave Tintin a a quiet, almost imperceptible nod; the boy closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Vogt's dead," he announced. He watched their expression change from confused to horrified. They exchanged glances. Nervous. Suspicious Afraid. "Shot between the eyes. It happened, just last night." He stood there, searching their expressions for a silent moment. Then he sighed again and collapsed into the nearest chair, running a hand through his hair. Staring down into the sheet in his hand, he added, "I think it's time everybody shared why they're here."

"Be—because of the storm," stammered Hazar, before the silence got too long. His face was pale, drawn with fear.

Shaking his head, Tintin held up the paper Calculus had given him. "This was on the dead man's body, quote: Norman P. Vogel; Chicago, Illinois. General Günter J. Freeh; Valkenswaard, Germany. Odette M. Bienvenue; Bocholt, Belgium. Sebastian L. Vogt; London, England. Hazar S. Schuuring; Maastricht, Netherlands."

"Himmel!" The monocle fell from Freeh's eye. "How dare you accuse me of murder? Me, a Hauptmann im Generalstab! Verfluche dich! This is too much!"

"I'm not accusing anybody right now," Tintin replied, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm simply reading the facts."

"And what do you have against me?" Vogel asked quietly.

"Nothing but this list." He held it up for them to see. "I don't have anything against anybody. All I know is, there's something going on. You're all going to tell me what you know. Right now. Before anybody else is killed."

"I was on my way to Berlin," Odette finally murmured. Everybody turned to look at her. "We were caught, caught in the storm just outside the Hall."

"And why," asked Hazar, "were you going to Berlin?"

"I—I don't know. Something that had to do with the government. Nobody told me what, exactly."

Freeh said, "Vogt and I were also going there." He straightened up a little, puffing out his chest. "I was to receive orders from the Führer. Personally. Heil Hitler!"

Nobody returned his salute.

"I was on my way to Moscow." Vogel's voice was cold, stiff. "Business. Nothing more."

Tintin opened his mouth to reply, but Haddock leapt to his feet, his hands clenched into two tight fists. "Thundering typhoons!" he shouted, his face blackening with rage. "You can all pretend to be ignorant of this, but you can't ignore that your names are all on this confounded list! You were congregating for something! Weren't you?"

"I'm going to be sick," muttered Odette, standing up.

"You can't leave!" Haddock roared.

"It's okay. Odette, be back in five minutes." He kept his voice calm- deceptively so. "Or you'll be bound and gagged until the storm is over."

She looked like a sleepwalker as she staggered out of the room. Her pale faced wore an expression of horrified shock. Every step seemed to drag and limp.

"Who was it that was killed?" Hazar asked, after the door closed behind her. "I mean, the man in the snow. Was _his _name on the list?"

The boy glanced down at the list again, and shook his head. "No. Just the five of you."

"So… is one of us an imposter?"

It was an interesting idea. But before he could dwell on it, the General's voice cut into his thoughts. "We'll not know who's innocent until we're all six feet deep," Freeh muttered glumly.

"That's not true."

Everybody turned to look at Vogel.

"It was Bienvenue."

Hazar cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah? And why do you say that?"

"She's a murderer. Killed her husband." He leaned against the back of the chair, letting a stream of cigarette smoke drift from his nose. "I lied to you, alright? I'm no businessman. I'm a lawyer. I was at her trial, see? She's a convict. She did it."

A slight shiver ran down Tintin's spine that he couldn't explain. Maybe because it was so off. She was the last one out of the bunch that he would've expected to kill someone, let alone her husband. But he shoved these feelings away, focusing on the more pressing question: "So why'd you lie?"

"Cause I'm a Communist. Didn't want you to know; not like I give a crap what you think about me, but because I was on my way to Russia and had to pass through Germany. Didn't want you to label me as some Bolshevist… if those stupid Krauts got wind of it…"

It was the longest speech he'd ever made, Tintin thought. "And why were you at Odette's trial?"

He shrugged. "I knew her husband. Look, you saw the bruises on her wrists from the manacles. Ask her. You saw it, Freeh."

"Ja, I did see something of the type," he admitted, slowly.

"I suppose… I suppose she might've thought the four of you knew something, and brought you all here to be murdererd…"

"Exactly my point," said Vogel, with satifstaction. He sat there, watching Tintin for a while. His face seemed to constrict, somehow, and he barked, "Aren't you going to go arrest her?"

"I— I'll go up to her room," he said, standing. "Captain, the floor's yours."

/

"Mademoiselle?"

She bit her lip, trying to force the sob away.

"Mademoiselle Bienvenue, are you alright?"

Even though he wasn't in the room, she felt herself shaking her head, adamantly, over and over again. A tear slipped out and splashed hot on her forearm, and she paused to wipe it away.

"Please respond." It was as if he could sense something was wrong; his knocking became more urgent. "Mademoiselle—"

"Please… please go." Try as she might, she couldn't keep her voice from quivering.

There was a pause—probably as he wondered what to do. Finally, she heard him say, "I'm coming in."

"Please…" Odette protested, but her voice was weak, and she knew it wouldn't stop him. As the knob turned, she stared down at the knife, as if contemplating doing it quickly, before he could take it from her.

His footsteps halted when he saw the gleam of the blade in her hand, and then he began walking towards her, slowly, hands slightly raised. "Mademoiselle—please—please put the knife down."

"Why?" she choked, staring at the shining metal. Her arm looked so pale and fragile. The veins stood out so clearly, thick blue streaks beneath her skin. All she had to do was break one— just _one. _He was getting closer, and she heard herself gasping, "Stay away!"

"It's alright, Mademoiselle. You don't need to worry." His voice was calm, soothing, trying to quiet a wild beast. "It's okay. Just let it go."

It seemed to pull her, the knife. Her eyes flickered between the blade and the face of the young man standing before her. It wouldn't be hard. It wouldn't even hurt.

The thought of closing her eyes, shutting herself off from all of this—it was tempting.

But not tempting enough. Somehow, her fingers loosened their hold, and she let the knife clatter to the floor.

The sound of it was deafening.

She stood there, numb, vacantly staring at the wall.

"I did it," she said.

Tintin took a step closer, holding his breath.

"I did it," she repeated, her voice breaking into a sob. "I killed him. My hands were—they were right there—"

Every nerve in his body screamed at his to follow his reporter instinct, to run to her and demand answers, but he swallowed it down. He didn't know what he was doing. He wasn't even sure if he was the one who initiated. But he suddenly found her in his arms, his left hand gently around her waist, his right running comfortingly up and down her back. "Shh, ma chérie," he murmured, hushing her, feeling each of her sobs heave against his body. "Shh."

Holding a girl. This was a new experience, he thought. It wasn't an unpleasant one, either. But past that, he had no idea what to think.

Looking over her shoulder, he noticed a folded piece of paper on the bed behind her. Part of him, a small, neglected, little voice, told him to ignore it and soak up the moment. But it didn't take long for his all-supreme reporter side to kick in. Succumbing to curiosity, he reached out, stealthily opening the folded letter. Some dark strands of her hair had fallen over his face, making reading difficult, but after a couple attempts at shifting his position, he could finally make out the words.

It was a short letter, only four words—almost disappointing.

_I'm sorry, Serge._

_—Odette_

Serge?

He blinked.

Not… Sebastian?

Odette's voice brought him back to the situation. "I'm— I'm sorry—" she began to gasp, but he interrupted.

"Vous êtes bon," he said, soothingly. "Vous êtes bon."

They stayed like that for a long moment, but Tintin's mind was far away from the girl in his arms. Who was Serge? Why was her suicide note addressed to him? What did she do that made her want to apologise?

After a while, her tears finally began to subside, and she seemed to realise what had been happening. Pulling back a little, she glanced behind her.

"You saw it?"

He nodded, somewhat abashedly. He didn't have any problem with reading other people's letters, but there was something a little awkward about reading a suicide note, when the person hadn't actually killed themselves.

"Serge… he is… was…" But she didn't look able to continue. Crossing her arms, she sat down at the edge of the bed, her face turned towards the window. Her mouth opened, and she took a shuddering breath, but she just as quickly closed it.

Keeping his distance, but close enough to offer comfort if needed, he joined her, sitting down at the foot of the bed. She was wearing her grey dress again, Tintin noticed. He had to admit it suited her more than the baby-blue and tan of his clothes, but he would've rather seen her in something warmer. "Who is he?" he asked, keeping his tone calm and reassuring.

"He was… somebody I knew."

Tintin noticed how the light from the window illuminated the long brown hairs that had strayed to her face; how it seemed to make her already pale face almost glow. It was pretty, he thought. Sort of angelic. Like the kind of thing you'd see on an album cover.

"Where did you know him from?" Noticing her distrustful expression, he laughed softly. "I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I'm a reporter. I can't help it."

A slight, trembling smile crooked the corner of her lips, and she stared down at her nails, inspecting them. "If you really want to know… he was my husband." She sighed. "We were married for almost a year."

_Married?_

He seemed to deflate, slightly. So Vogel was telling the truth. She really had been married. How old was she, even? He hadn't thought more than 18— at the very most.

"Mademoiselle… how do you mean… was?"

Chewing on her lip, Odette looked out at the window again, and once more Tintin was struck with how the light cast a sort of halo around her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her forehead. "I killed him."

/

"So, did she kill him?"

"Who?" Tintin asked.

The two of them were leaving the guests behind in the drawing room as they went to summon Nestor for some tea. Tintin was scribbling down something in a notepad of his—it was in French, so Haddock had no idea what—and was entirely absorbed.

"Sebastian!"

"Oh." He shrugged. "No, I don't think so."

"Yes, because suicide is in no way an indication of guilt."

Tintin missed the sarcasm. "Yeah, maybe."

Raising his hands to the sky, as if asking for divine help, the Captain heaved a sigh of exasperation. "That's another thing I wanted to mention. Why the flaming thunder was she wearing your clothes?" In truth, he hadn't exactly _wanted _to mention it. He was already anticipating this being an incredibly awkward conversation. But what was he supposed to think? Tintin goes to bed moody, wakes up obviously feeling better, and the only girl in the house is in his clothes...

"Er…" The boy flipped a page in his notepad. "She's wearing her grey dress right now."

"This morning, she had your clothes on," the Captain said, with strained patience.

He nodded. "I gave them to her."

"I know, blistering barnacles!" He fumbled for the right words. 'I thought… I guess I just thought you were a little young…"

"Actually, we're just about the same size, so it worked out."

The dam of emotions finally splintered and the words began falling out in a waterfall that he couldn't control, "Tintin, I know you were lonely and very disheartened last night, and I want you to know I understand. I totally get it. But you know I think of you as my family, lad, and I want to protect you." He kept his voice a low murmur, but it was packed with all the emotions inside of him.

The pencil hovered uncertainly in mid-air. "Well…er…thank you. Same here." He glanced up at Haddock for a moment, smiled innocently, and then continued writing.

"Tintin, please."

Genuinely confused, Tintin asked, "Please what?"

He groaned internally. This wasn't going to be easy. Steepling his fingers, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started again. "Tintin… lad… why was Odette wearing your clothes?"

Tintin began studying Haddock as though he was concerned for his mental health. "I gave them to her," he repeated slowly, as if talking to an exceptionally dim child. "She was cold." The pencil resumed its scribbling.

"Are you, er, going to explain?"

Clenching his jaw, Tintin looked up from his work and closed the notepad, finally entertaining the possibility this wasn't going to be a brief conversation. "I hope you don't mind."

_He hoped I didn't mind. _Trying to look casual, and like he didn't mind, the Captain shrugged. "I don't know. Why would I mind?"

"I don't know. I didn't think much of it at the time. I hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable."

He swallowed, feeling a strange tightness in his throat. It wasn't exactly the adjective the Captain would've chosen. "Uncomfortable?" he repeated, thickly.

"Yeah, I wasn't sure about how you felt about girls wearing pants. I didn't think any of our guests would have problems with it. I guess I should've double checked with you first. She still _has _her dress, of course, so if you want…"

The world seemed to tilt slightly. "Er… Tintin… so you didn't… get _laid_ last night, then, did you?"

Tintin blinked. "Get what?"

The Captain stared at Tintin for a moment, and then backtracked rapidly. "Nevermind. Think nothing of it." He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

"Right." He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but looked back down to his notepad and resumed writing as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, I'm frightfully busy... why don't you go talk to Nestor, and I'll go back and talk to our guests some more?"

"Yes; you do that."

Haddock decided that Tintin was the most innocent person in the world.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yeah, random lighthearted moment. I'm having a touch of trouble writing this part. Hope you enjoyed, anyway.

You love me, right? So you'll give me a review, right? {:)


	10. The Tattoo

**Chapter 9**

"But he… he seemed so alive." Hazar shook his head, staring down into his glass of beer. His eyes had a slightly distant look, as if his mind was lost, tossed somewhere on a swollen sea of thought. "He just can't be dead. It's, it's ridiculous. That's what it is. Ridiculous."

"You wuss." Freeh sneered, throwing back his head as he downed a glass of beer. "It's just a body… Meine Güte. It was wimps like you that made us lose the War."

"Yeah." He pulled his lips tight, a lump forming in his throat as he poured himself another beer. "Yeah," he repeated hoarsely, "and we're all crushed about—"

His voice broke off abruptly as the door opened. The butler—a tall, balding Englishman in a suit with hideous yellow stripes charging down the front—came into the room, bearing a tray of tea. He was a grave, supercilious sort, and his arrival was accompanied with uncomfortable silence and nervous glances, like a mother entering a room full of hitherto gossiping teenage girls.

"Your tea, sirs," he announced coolly.

Freeh and Hazar, beers in hand, exchanged awkward looks as the tea was set on the table.

Hazar waited for the door to close behind him before he said, "So, what did you think about earlier?" He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "You know. The imposter."

"Preposterous." Vogel snorted, as if to make his point.

"Yeah, well. You'd say that, wouldn't you? All of us would." His voice was strained. "We can all try to deny it, can't we? But you know as well as I do what's going on. One of us five was out there. Got shot. A sixth man was watching. Saw. Popped in, took their place. It could be any of us."

"I don't know what you mean." The General shifted in the chair uncomfortably. The room seemed warm all of a sudden, and his fingertips found his collar, pulling at it nervously.

"The kid has a point." Vogel leaned back a little, relaxing into the sofa. He reached back and took a bottle of whisky from the table. The light from the fireplace flickered eerily through the amber glass. "But maybe some mug simply got a hold of the list. Happened to have it when he was shot. That doesn't mean one of us is—is just pretending. And why'd he do a dumb thing like that?" Crossing his legs, he folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them for a long moment, seemingly absorbed. "Just give me one reason."

"Maybe… maybe they want to get in here." He swallowed. "They want us dead."

/

When Tintin entered the parlour, he was entirely conscious of the conversation his entrance had broken off. Wishing he'd stayed behind the door to eavesdrop, he sat in his normal chair, listening to the idle chatter of the three men—Vogel, Hazar, and Freeh—as a halting conversation began. They talked about women and pretended to act like they weren't watching eachother backs and silently accusing eachother of murder. He bore it for a little while, flipping through the paper and acting interested in the junk that was in there, but it quickly got too much. He just needed peace and quiet. Some time to think.

As fate would have it, Snowy was in the room and started vying for Tintin's attention, so peace and quiet was out of the question. For about a minute he subjected himself to tug-of-war and doggy dribble, until he finally gave up and collapsed on his bed, his head hanging off the edge, his eyes randomly tracing the tiny scratches in the hardwood floor, as if they made up some sort of map that would all come together if he just looked long enough.

_What a day, _he thought. He felt so confused. About the murder. The bodies. And… he had to admit it… Odette.

He wasn't sure how he felt about her. What he thought. Of course he knew that she could have murdered Sebastian. She killed her husband. But… it just didn't seem to add up.

Lost in thought, it wasn't until the smell of tea wafted towards him that he even realised the it was there.

It took a few moments for his brain to compute from where in the room the smell was coming from. He straightened up, heaving his body off the mattress, and looked around. On the end table, opposite his bed, was a tea tray. He slowly walked towards it, looking it over— the set was white china, complete with tea pot, milk, sugar, and two cups.

_Two? _he thought, puzzled.

Snowy trotted over to him, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and peered at Tintin, trying to catch his eye. _I'll forgive you for ignoring me if you feed me, _his eyes said. The boy chuckled, dropping him a sugar cube. "There, that's for you, mon petit ami," he said, grinning as he listened to Snowy's satisfied crunches.

The thought entered his mind that the tea was poisoned—like in China—but he didn't entertain the thought for long. It didn't seem likely, for some reason. Nestor would know if somebody was making tea in his kitchen. And just didn't seem likely that the murderer, whoever he or she was, would go to such extreme measures, so soon.

"But then who brought this in here?" he asked Snowy, putting his hands on his knees and bending down to face the dog. "Who brought this in here, eh? Probably the Captain. You think?"

Snowy peered up at him, giving Tintin what the boy interpreted to be a very intelligent, knowing look. In reality, it was a plea for another sugar cube, but Tintin failed to realise that. Ignoring the request, he begun to pour himself a cup of tea.

There was a knock at the door. Dusting off his hands, Tintin made his way to the door, fully expecting to see the Captain standing there. But when it opened, it was Odette.

His breath seemed to catch in his throat; he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. "Mademoiselle," he said, respectfully.

Looking slightly flustered, she held out his clothes, neatly folded in a pile in her arms. "I came to return your—"

"But—you don't have to!" He looked slightly horrified. "Who told you to do that?"

"Er… the Captain suggested that I go talk to you about it."

Tintin looked at her for a moment, chewing her lip. "Wait… the Captain told you to talk to me about it? Just now?"

"About… er… two minutes ago."

He glanced at the tea tray on the table behind him. Dragging a hand over his face, he took a deep breath and shrugged at Odette. "I don't know what he was thinking. You can have those as long as you like. Keep them, for all I care. But… er… I have some tea here… would you care for a cup?"

He'd expected her to look sceptical, but she just cocked her head a little to the side and said, "In here? Or do you want to go downstairs?"

_She's asking me?_ "Well… er… which do you prefer?"

Odette looked over his room, almost inspecting it, and then nodded shyly. "In here is… is fine."

"Good." For some reason, he felt relieved. He didn't want to go back downstairs—not yet. "That's what I was thinking, too. Come on in."

/

Vogel reclined further back into his chair, watching as Schuuring and General Freeh conversed in German. The fact that he couldn't understand what they were saying really bothered him. True, he felt excluded, but it wasn't that that he minded. No, it was the fact that they could be plotting his death right in front of him, and he wouldn't know it. It was that that he minded.

"Look. You know English, don't you?"

They glanced up at him, confused. "Yeah?" Hazar said, after a pause. "We all do."

"So let's talk in it, alright?" He kept his voice monotone, but his body language spoke volumes. He took another step closer, menacing.

"Feeling left out, are we?" Freeh sneered, his voice sickly-sweet.

"I don't care about that. I just don't want to have to kill you," he replied smoothly.

Hazar looked away from him in disgust, his eyes fixed on the cigarette between his fingertips. "You'd just convince the government to do it for you," he muttered.

Vogel froze. His lips contorted, twisting speechlessly, until he finally hissed, "You just say that again."

Sneering, Hazar repeated it. "I said, you'd just convince—"

He sidestepped Vogel's blow just in time. But he couldn't stop the man's hand from grabbing onto his shirt. He was trying to pull Hazar closer, to ram him in the face, but instead only managed to rip the collar of his shirt. His entire shoulder was bare.

When Hazar saw the ink lettering on the skin underneath exposed, his body seemed to go numb.

/

"So where in Belgium are you from?" Tintin asked. He and Odette had made their cups of tea and were sitting on two pillows, placed on either side of the tea tray, which, in turn, was placed on the floor. Snowy was curled up next to him, snoring lightly. It was a perfect scene. He could already see it in some little children's book: the boy and girl, not able to picnic due to the rain, were sitting on pillows in their parent's bedroom, drinking water in chipped china cups and nibbling on jelly rolls. _Only add 10-plus years, and real tea and china, _he thought. _And two murders. And a horrible blizzard. And the girl has killed her husband. Besides that, it's straight out of a children's book._

"I'm from Bocholt," she replied. "You've probably never heard of it."

Come to think of it, he remembered that name on the list of names. It hadn't really meant anything to him then. It was just another name. But now he suddenly remembered the town, Bocholt. He'd been there, a couple times. He might've even run into Serge and Odette. The thought made him strangely happy, though he couldn't exactly tell why. Maybe it was just nice to think of her as a normal person, who could live a normal life. Not a convict, potentially guilty of three murders.

"Actually, I think I've been there."

"Have you? It's minutes away from Germany. Practically on the border." A wistful look flitted across Odette's face, and she hung her head, just a bit. "Serge… I mean, my husband… he and I were both from there."

The mention of her husband made seem to constrict inside, and suddenly he had no idea what to say. _She's obviously upset about this. Move on. Keep the conversation going. _"It's a beautiful place." Feeling like this wasn't good enough, he quickly added, "I've been there three or four times, at least. You must speak flawless German."

"We were fluent. We probably spent more time in Germany than Belgium," she admitted.

"My first trip to Germany, I was being chased by gendarmes the entire time." He chuckled, and glanced down, drumming his fingers against the side of his teacup. "I picked up some interesting words there, let me tell you. Can't say I ever got the hang of it, though. People say it's just like English, but…"

"How many languages do you speak?"

"Snakes…" He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Er, French, of course; English, American—they really are different—, Spanish, Flemish, Russian, a little Chinese—"

"Ne—nevermind," she interrupted quickly. "Don't worry. I get the picture."

He laughed again, more softly this time, but didn't say anything.

"I just realised, I'm the only one who understands you when you're upset," Odette said quietly, breaking the short silence that had ensued.

He looked up from his cup of tea, his expression quizzical. "How do you mean?"

"You speak in French whenever you're upset. As far as I know, none of them understand it."

"True. Except for the Captain… but he just barely knows it." Tintin shrugged, and then chuckled fondly. "Just enough to buy whisky from the grocer."

They laughed, and her laugh was a good sound. After Odette's attempted suicide only this morning, it was relieving to hear her happy. And besides, she had a good laugh. It was low and sweet, rich; almost indulgent. It was unlike a lot of women's, such as, say, Castafiore, whose laugh was akin to a parrot screeching.

Done stirring his tea, he tapped the rim of the cup with the spoon, and then set it down on the table with a sigh. "What you saw—you know, with Hazar—that almost never happens."

"I'm not surprised." She shrugged. "You don't seem like the kind of person who'd do that often. And I knew what you were saying. You weren't upset for yourself; you were only trying to protect your friend."

He grinned a little. "You read my mind."

They sat in contended silence for a little while longer, until Odette asked, suddenly, "How long have you known him?"

"The Captain?"

She nodded, taking a sip of tea.

"Two years," he replied.

She raised her eyebrows, choking down the tea. "Two years, and you're this close?"

"Well, we have almost died for eachother a billion times. That helps a little. Bonded by trauma, if nothing else." His tone was jesting, but he stared down into his tea for a moment, and seemed to sober. "We saved eachother," he admitted, after a moment. "The Captain… when I found him, he hadn't been sober in years. He… he'd been through a lot. I helped take him away from all that. Odette, he was so—so angry, and bitter, and hurt. And just lost, really lost. All he could do was just… just drown himself in more booze. Just try to kill the pain."

"And you?" Odette asked, softly, when the silence began to stretch.

Tintin sighed. "I'd been through a lot, too," he admitted, shrugging. "At some point, doing what I do… it just drains your soul. You can't see people dying left and right and stay normal, especially not when you're a reporter, when you're supposed to be objective. Having the Captain was the only thing that kept me together, you know? I didn't drink, of course, but if I'd kept on going the way I was, I would've, if I reached his age. Which is a pretty big 'if'." His finger swirled around the tea in his cup, and after a moment, he put it aside, crossing his arms and leaning against the foot of the bed. "I was a slave to reporting. To the adrenaline, excitement, whatever. It was my drug. It distracted me, made life worth living, took away all the… I don't know, it took my mind away from what happened when I was…was…" Without warning, his voice broke off raggedly. Biting his lip, his gaze wandered to the floor; he didn't seem to want to continue.

She waited for him to expound on what exactly had happened, but he didn't. Instead, after a moment, he just finished, "I did all that stupid stuff because I really had nothing to live for. You know, I had nothing to lose. But… then… it was like I suddenly had a dad. It was… just to know somebody actually…"

"Cared?" she finished.

He looked at her, almost startled, as if realizing for the first time that she was there. Biting his lip, he nodded slowly, leaning back further against the bed frame. And then he straightened up, his head cocked quizzically. "You know—you know, Odette, I just realised—have we been speaking English this entire time?"

Odette paused thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin. "Yes… yes, I think so."

"Sacrebleu…" Groaning, Tintin slapped his forehead. "My one friend who speaks French, and I talk to her in English. What an idiot!"

In French, she said, "Well, we could start now."

He got to his knees, hands clasped beseechingly, and asked, also in French, "Mademoiselle Odette Bienvenue, will you do me the honour of conversing with me in our native tongue?"

"But of course, Monsieur Tintin…Tintin…" She looked at him for a long moment. Her expression slowly became sheepish, and she stammered, grinning lopsidedly, "I just realised—I don't, er, seem to know your last name."

Tintin grinned cheekily. "How's this: if the storm hasn't let up by Christmas, it'll be your present. Happy Christmas."

"Your name?" Her jaw slackened as she feigned being taken aback. "What kind of stupid present is that? Doesn't everybody know your name?"

"Not a soul," he said sombrely.

"What about the Captain?"

"I'll tell you on Christmas Eve."

"Ooh!" She flicked a sugar cube at him, still pretending to be offended, but barely able to stifle her laughter. "Cheeky little blighter!"

He laughed, scooting backward. Grinning, she reached forward and playfully shoved him a little. The movement made the shoulder of her dress slip down, just a little. That was when he saw the tattoo.

He could barely see any of the ink. Just enough to read the top half of the letters.

_Meminit Non ut Mundus_.

Tintin could feel his entire body slowly start to go numb. It started from his head and slowly crept down to his fingertips, freezing him as it went.

"You have his tattoo," he said, weakly.

Her laughter slowly dwindled away as her own gaze drifted to her shoulder. He could see the blood drain softly from her cheeks, replacing the previous glow with a deathly pallor.

_The list, _he thought. _Her name was on the list._

Of course he'd known. But it really hit him. She and the dead man had the same tattoo. They were connected.

"Do they have it?" He reached forward, more harshly than he had intended, and gripped her shoulder. She winced, as if the tattoo had been a bruise, and tried to back away. He didn't let her. "Do the others have it?"

He could see the conflict on her face, but after only a few moments, honesty won out. She hung her head and nodded.

"Right." Getting to his feet, he opened the door, gesturing for her to go. "We're going downstairs, Mademoiselle. Now."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I know I've been mingling light-hearted and serious moments for these last two chapters, but have no fear, I'll be focusing more on the plot more. Unless, of course, you prefer light-hearted moments...? Vox populi, vox Dei, as they say. It's for these sorts of situations that reviews are _so incredibly helpful. _

_And so incredibly __**wanted.**_

Let me know, either way. And thanks for reading! Man, I just now realised I've never said that before. Well, here it is again: thank you.


	11. Blackmail

**Chapter Ten**

Vogel discreetly closed the door behind himself as he exited his previous bedroom; the bedroom turned morgue. The chill that went down his spine had nothing to do with the bitter cold of the Hall.

He felt overwhelmed. It was the last word he'd ever though he'd use to describe himself, but he was. He was completely overwhelmed.

_You just have to stay on top of it, _he thought. He reached up to loosen his tie, and noticed his fingers were shaking. He cursed quietly. He finally managed to yank the tie onto the ground, and began trying to unfasten the buttons on his collar, but he couldn't, he couldn't…. "C'mon…" he muttered angrily. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow, and when he wiped them away, the moisture on his fingers made undoing the buttons even harder. Growling, he finally ripped his dress shirt open. Buttons scattered across the hallway floor, but he was indifferent; Vogel's fingers scrabbled for the collar, and let go of a long pent-up breath when he managed to yank it down.

From the room turned morgue, he could hear the wind howling, bleak and empty.

His eyes wandered over the mark that was there, on his shoulder. For a long time, all he could do was stare at it. His fingers moved with permission, reaching up, tracing the black letters.

_Meminit Non ut Mundus_. He let his hand drop.

_But the world hasn't forgotten. _

A dark shaped moved, from the end of the hallway, and Vogel froze. His heart began to pound.

"Who is it?" he shouted, feeling faint.

"Yes, sir?"

_The butler, curse him! _

Vogel snapped back to reality. "What're you looking at?" he barked.

"Nothing at all, sir," the man replied calmly, and walked away.

Muttering to himself, Vogel yanked back up the shirt and stalked down the hallway, out of view.

_He saw, _he thought. _It doesn't make a difference what you say. He saw._

/

_It was all because of that day,_ she thought.

His breath had been warm on her neck, his fingers crawling over her bare shoulder like feet of warm, soft spider. The room had been cold, and she'd been shivering, covered in gooseflesh; but despite the bitter chill, sweat had trickled down her forehead. Her head had been shaved, then; she remembered that. She thought she had been wearing the grey dress, but couldn't be sure.

The needle had hurt. But she'd been in a daze, and she'd had a bloody headache, and the needle poking through her skin hadn't pained her much. No; the words had been what really hurt. With each jab of the ink-dipped needle, he'd struck, with equal strength, into her heart. Piercing through her feeble defences, laughing at her attempts to resist, he'd dug into the sensitive, shielded part of her mind. Like he had her body.

The mere thought made her gut twist, and she had to restrain herself from struggling free from the hand Tintin had placed on her shoulder, and running to the nearest litterbin to be sick. But she'd done that this morning; she wouldn't make him suspicious again. Drawing a deep breath, she struggled to steel herself. But she couldn't focus her mind. It kept on drifting back to that day. And then a day before it.

Eleven months, she thought. Three weeks. Two days. That's how long it had been since he had died.

"Do they have it?" Tintin had asked. The boy's voice had been low, but she had heard the yell, the anger, quiet beneath his unassuming tone. "Do the others have it?"

She hadn't been listening. She had been staring at the tattoo. Part of her had wanted to answer, but her brain hadn't fully understood his question. She just stared…

He had reached forward, grabbing her shoulder, and her entire body had seemed to throb as his fingers made contact with the ink.

She had felt trapped. Frightened. Cornered.

_Don't touch me, _every nerve had been screaming out loud, pounding with uncontrolled desperation. _Don't touch me—!_

"What are you doing?" she suddenly heard Tintin demanding, his voice snapping into her thoughts, and for a moment, she thought he was talking to her. She scuttled backwards with her bare feet, raising an arm defensively, when she saw Vogel stomping down the hallway. A chill ran down her body as he got closer, not saying anything, just storming nearer and nearer—

It happened in a blur. Vogel's thin, pale hands snaked out and grabbed Tintin's collar, hefting the boy a full six inches off the ground. Tintin yelped, swung his knee forward, but before it made contact with Vogel's body, Odette intervened.

Without fully realising what she was doing, she slammed her hands into Vogel's shoulder. The man let go of Tintin and stumbled backwards. A second later an expression of utter rage formed on his face, and he lunged for Tintin again-

"Stop it!" she heard herself yelling.

It took a moment for them all to catch their balance; when they had, they stared at eachother, locked in a triangle, breathing heavily.

There was the sound of feet walking quickly; in a flash, Freeh and Hazar had burst into the hallway, probably chasing after Vogel. Haddock wasn't far behind. When he saw what was going on, he froze. It was clear he didn't know what was going on, but it looked as if Vogel had just tried to hurt Tintin, and Haddock just saw red.

"What the blue blazes is going on?" Haddock roared, sprinting towards Vogel, hands outstretched, making Odette think of a beast coming in for the kill. Tintin extended a hand almost protectively in front of Vogel, blocking off Haddock's rampage. "Captain, wait."

Vogel couldn't hide his flinch. The word 'wait,' in this situation, was very different from the word 'stop.'

"It's…" Odette volunteered, weakly, but decided quickly it was better not to say anything at all. Glancing down at her shoulder, she reached up with her hand and straightened the collar on her dress, pulling up the thin grey fabric further up. She knew full well that the words were covered up now, but she still felt exposed.

"What did you want?" the reporter demanded, his grey eyes challenging and determined.

Vogel glanced at the three gathered at the end of the hallway, and his lip curled in distaste. "I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Throttling him was a fine way to start that conversation," shouted Haddock, tense.

"You wanted to know something," Tintin encouraged, trying to ignore the Captain.

"It was nothing," Vogel muttered, looking away from Hazar and Freeh, finally meeting Tintin's gaze.

"By thunder! That's the limit!" Despite Tintin's warning shake of the head, Haddock took a threatening step closer, his face dark with rage. "Blistering barnacles, you can spit it out now, or I'll crush your flaming skull in!"

Clearly unfazed, Vogel fixed his stare on Tintin's face, an almost bored expression cloaking his face. "I just wanted to know," he said coolly, "who you were going to kill next."

Time froze.

Hazar gasped, "You…!"

The Captain couldn't even say anything.

For Tintin, the world seemed to spin softly. He closed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to maintain a passive expression. _Keep calm. Don't give him any power._ _He thinks you're a murderer, or he's trying to frame you. Why did he say that? Figure it out. _He was fully conscious of Hazar and Freeh's bewildered looks. If he said the wrong thing, they would think he was a murderer. _Keep calm. Figure it out. _Swallowing, he replied, as calmly as possible, "And why is that?"

"You're a vigilante. I've read the papers."

Tintin could feel his jaw clenching. He tried to force his body to relax. "I don't kill people," he said, quietly but firmly. "And I don't even know what it is I would've killed Vogt for."

"Yeah, well, if I've learned anything else from the papers, it's that you're a snoop." He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. "Everybody else in this stupid prison of a house knows. And who's to say your lover there wouldn't have told you?"

Odette turned white and seemed to shrink into the curtains, while Haddock looked at Tintin with stupid disbelief written on his face.

"Mademoiselle Bienvenue and I have in no way been involved," said Tintin steadily. "Neither has she informed me of Monsieur Vogt's past." He was impressed at how calm he managed to sound.

"Yeah, right." It was hard to tell to which he was referring. Both, probably.

Tintin said, "I think it's time you informed us what was going on."

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Like you don't already know." Vogel took a drag from his cigarette, waiting infuriatingly long before saying, "Blackmail." He paused to let the word roll in his mouth, like a sip of aged wine— relishing, if not the concept, the looks it brought to Tintin and Haddock's faces. "All five of us. Four, since Vogt… you know."

_Blackmail._

_Snakes,_ Tintin thought. _Great snakes._

_So this is what's happening. In our own house. I'm tangled up in a case involving blackmail._

"Preposterous!" Freeh was the first one to break the silence. He spluttered out the word indignantly.

"Yeah? So what would you call it?" Vogel asked.

His face turned red. "It was nothing," he stuttered. "Nothing at all! I did nothing wrong! I couldn't help it if… if _he _wanted money."

Tintin was relieved to have the suspicious glares drawn away from his face. He leaned forward a bit, saying, "And what exactly did _he_ threaten to reveal, General?"

He wiped a bead of sweat away, with a trembling palm. "Nothing! Nichts! Es war nichts!"

"What happened?"

"Meine Güte! It was nothing. Nobody cared. Nobody even minded. I had a budding career!" he added, desperation breaking through in his voice. "I wasn't going to let it go to ruin because some dumm gierig kriechen got straitlaced about something that—that happened over ten years ago!"

His rebuttal was pathetic. He knew that. Moreover, a line had been crossed. The awareness of this grew in Freeh's mind like the lump in his throat.

Drawing himself to his full height—which wasn't much, but seemed somehow threatening nonetheless—Tintin demanded, through gritted teeth, "What—did—you—do?"

"I shot the stupid villagers!" He seemed to deflate after saying it. His heavily jowled face looked limp and pale; his thin grey hair clung damp to his forehead. "I didn't even do it," he added feebly. "It was my men. Nobody cared. They were just Belgians." It didn't seem to occur that Tintin, being a Belgian, might not be able to empathise with him. "Nobody even brought it up again until… until ten years after. I have no regrets. I did was right for my country."

Tintin sighed, resting his fingertips against his temples. "And what about you, Vogel?"

"It could've been anything," he said simply. "I'm a lawyer. I'm not afraid to say I have enemies. And as long as we're all laying the cards on the table, I'll tell you: half the time, it's my fault. Yeah, I make my own enemies. I've probably dealt dozens of fouled up cases. But I'd rather fork over thirty bucks a month than lose my job, just cause somebody has the nerve to air my dirty laundry. Oh. And, if you want to know, Vogt gambled too much. Big surprise, right? Got in debt. Freeh here can tell you all about that. And as for Odette… well, I think we all know why she's here."

At the mention of her name, they all took quick looks at Odette; they'd all but forgotten she was in the room.

She swallowed, nervous with all the sudden attention.

Tintin felt bad for her, standing there in the sudden and unwanted spotlight, and said, quickly, "Fair enough," succeeding in drawing their glares away. "And…so, monsieur… why exactly did you think that I was a murderer?"

"Oh, forget it," Vogel snapped, suddenly bothered. He threw his cigarette onto the floor, snarling. "Just… forget it, okay? It was nothing. Anyway, can I go?"

"Go?"

"Yeah." He scowled down at Tintin. "Or am I going to be standing here the rest of the day? Held hostage by a 10 year old?"

Tintin's deadpan expression didn't as much as flicker. "You can all go."

Slowly, they dispersed, casting suspicious, angry glances at the people around. It was a relief to have them gone.

When Tintin was absorbed, especially when facing down a criminal, scathing insults and stinging jibes would bounce right off of him, like bullets off Superman's chest. It wasn't until afterwards, sometimes days afterwards, that he would become susceptible to what was said. Now that his face was no longer white with concentration, he was soaking up Vogel's remarks, and his face was starting to burn. When he blushed, his face turned the exact colour of his hair: it was something the Captain usually found quite amusing. But even he found he situation far too serious for humour as childish as that.

"That was just… just rude," Tintin finally said.

"That's not exactly the word I'd have chosen," Haddock muttered, glaring down Vogel's retreating form. "Blistering barnacles, I had to force my mouth shut… otherwise…"

"What do you think we should do? Lock them up in their bedrooms, or what?"

"No idea."

Tintin made his hand into a fist and banged it gently against the wall. "This awful storm… I wish we could just get all them arrested…"

As if in response, a burst of wind shook the house, and Tintin wrapped his arms round his body.

"You forgot Hazar," Haddock reminded him.

"What?"

"You forgot to ask him what he did."

Groaning, Tintin closed his eyes. "Zut… now I'll have to go find him…"

"Monsieur Tintin?"

His eyes snapping open, Tintin turned around in surprise. Odette was still standing there. "Still here?" he asked, tiredly. "Go ahead and go, Odette."

Nodding, she began to walk away. But before she was completely gone, Tintin added, hesitantly, "Look, I'm sorry about Vogel. He's… an idiot."

"Oui, il est," she replied, laughing a little breathily.

Leaning against the wall a little, he shook his head. "Ne vous inquiétez pas, d'accord?" His tone softened. "Ce n'est pas grave."

Turning back towards him, she could see just a ghost of sympathy clouding his grey eyes. She nodded back, closing her own. "Je sais," she said softly. "Er… et Tintin… merci."

He frowned a little, but asked politely, "Pourquoi?"

The faintest trace of a smile crossed her face. "For the cup of tea." And then she was gone.

He stood there for a few beats longer, even after she had left. And then, sighing, Tintin turned towards Haddock. The man had a very peculiar expression on his face, he noticed, but, tired and preoccupied, Tintin chose not to comment on it. "Captain," he said, "we're going to need to keep our guard up."

"Righto," he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. Under his breath, he muttered, "You especially."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Why was Vogel in the morgue? Why was he looking at his tattoo? And what scared him so much? Find out next time when you tune into Hergé and Hmuff's _Silent Night!_

Ha ha… aaaanyway…

Hey look, I just wrote Chapter Ten. What a milestone. I feel like cracking open the proverbial bottle of champagne. Come over to my house, we can crack it open together. And guess what? I'll crack open even _more_ if you give me a **review**! (I'm not exactly sure why the thought of me getting stoned is an incentive for you to write a review, but… ahh whatever. Do it anyway. Please.)

Btw, taking the PSAT in 15 hours! PRAY FOR ME.


	12. Love Dispute

**Chapter Eleven**

It was the worst lunch ever. Tintin could remember times when he had been in prisons, minutes away from going up against a wall, and had enjoyed lunch more than he did right now.

Everybody was still _acting _nice, of course. They asked for Hazar to pass the sugar and Freeh for the tray of digestive biscuits; they complimented the cucumber sandwiches and said the pate was excellent. After a while, they turned on the radio and listened attentively to the news, as if their minds weren't far off elsewhere. They ignored the flickering of the lights and the screaming of the wind. They pretended that snow wasn't blanketing over the windows, blocking off the doors, cutting them off from the rest of the world; that the fireplace on the other side of the room compensated for the finger-numbing cold that was breaking into every room in the house. They pretended like everything was normal.

The house shook, and the Venetian chandelier over their heads flickered dimly. Tintin's eyes followed Odette's as she cast a nervous glance upward, then tried to look as if she was involved in the taut, empty conversation. She shivered with cold and wrapped her jacket closer to her body.

A strange feeling of dread clenched Tintin's stomach. It was as if they were all… _waiting_ for something. Calculus and Snowy, alone, were oblivious to the tension. Everyone else was as tight as rubber band, pulled back as far as it could go.

There was a burst of static, and the radio shut off.

Everybody stared at it for a long moment, as if it had snapped them out of a dream, and they suddenly weren't sure where they were. Without the familiar droning sound of the radio, the stunned guests were unable to form coherent thoughts, unable to look normal. The conversation had lost its anchor and left them moored in a place called Moulinsart Hall; where they were holed up, frozen, and alone.

A deathly silence began to fill the room.

"Captain," said Tintin brightly, "do we have any more tea?" He fingered his napkin and looked polite.

Haddock stared at Tintin for a moment, then seemed to understand what his young friend was doing. _Trying to keep it all normal. He's trying to keep us sane. _

"Yes…" he began, hesitantly, realizing that he needed to look buoyant, self-assured. He was aware that he was probably failing miserably, but he needed to keep it up. _The show must go on_. "I believe… we do… Nestor?" he called.

"More tea?" nodded Nestor, and walked off without another word.

Seven people looked at each other blankly around the table, utterly silent. Outside, a shutter banged against the house, and Hazar winced.

_He's on edge_, noted Tintin. "Thank you, Captain," he said, needlessly; he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You're welcome," replied Haddock.

There was a long, interminable silence.

Hazar rose from his chair suddenly, slamming his fists on the tabletop. They all jumped at least an inch from their seats. "Heilige moeder!" he burst out. "I'm sick of this- this lie! We sit here and pretend, we pretend that nothing is wrong. What's wrong with us?"

Freeh rose from the table to meet Hazar. "Stop it, Schuuring, calm yourself!" he sputtered. "Can't you see that we're doing our best?"

"Doing our best? You're just a fake!" Hazar screamed, and Tintin could see the almost feral, desperate look in his eyes.

"Ich sagte, schlieben Sie den Mund!"

"Du Lügner…" Hazar slowly sunk to his chair. He seemed to have calmed, but his entire body was still trembling. "Du dreckiger Lügner…" His anger was like a short fuse that had burned out, leaving him drained and powerless, confused. He turned to Odette suddenly. "What about you, Odette? Speaking of liars. What are you hiding?"

"What?" Her face started to go pale. "What do you mean?" she retorted, almost defensively.

"Murderer. Three-time murderer. Come on, just say it, okay?" Getting to his feet, he took a staggering step towards her, his hands clenched into tight fists. "Say it!"

Odette clutched her right shoulder, covering her tattoo. "But I…"

"Stop it," Tintin interrupted.

Hazar and Odette turned to look at him. He had stood up, and was glaring at Hazar from across the table. His grey eyes, usually calm, were storm clouds of anger and threat.

Haddock looked down and realised with a shock that Tintin's hand was wandering dangerously near the breadknife.

Time seemed to slow.

They stood there, for a long time, before Hazar finally backed down.

"Whatever," he muttered, slumping back into his chair.

The grateful look Odette gave Tintin, and the nod he gave back, were subtle, but the Captain saw them immediately.

"Blistering barnacles…" he muttered.

Just then, Nestor returned with an empty tray. His face was pale.

"No tea, sirs."

"No tea?" Freeh almost shouted.

"Not a drop," Nestor replied sombrely.

Freeh muttered, "Gütiger Himmel… what kind of stupid…"

"Tintin?" the Captain interrupted, clearing his throat. "Can I talk to you? In the kitchen?" Without waiting for a reply, he pushed himself from the table and stalked off.

Tintin's eyes followed him wordlessly, wondering what Haddock had to say, and at the same time knowing exactly what it was. It wasn't long before he stood up and followed.

Their departure left the room even emptier than before, and somehow even colder.

"No tea…" muttered Freeh, shaking his head.

/

Haddock felt awful. He felt so awful that the word 'awful' seemed like an understatement. But for the life of him he couldn't think of any better one. Perhaps 'rotten.' Yes, that was it: Haddock felt downright rotten, and there was no denying it.

It wasn't that he felt bad about what he was going to ask. He was the adult; the parent figure. He was almost 40 years older and Tintin. Haddock knew more about the world. Well, perhaps _that _was debateable, but he certainly knew more about _some _things, and it was _those _things that were concerning him right now.

He stood in the kitchen, pretending to read the book on the counter—something about the Enlightenment, but he'd never heard of the author and didn't care one bit about the words on the page—and waited to hear Tintin's footsteps approaching the door. He wasn't sure why he was _waiting. _He felt rather is if he should be _dreading._

When the door opened, his heart staggered a bit.

"Yes?" Tintin asked, his voice bright. He looked at Haddock with an expression of wide-eyed innocence.

Haddock swallowed, fingering the pipe in his hands. He found it hard to meet Tintin's childlike grey gaze. "Tintin."

"Hi. What is it?"

"Tintin, can we…er… talk?"

Raising an eyebrow, Tintin closed the door behind himself, crossing the room and settling on a chair across from Haddock. It was Nestor's chair, the one he would sit in to read Blaise Pascal while dinner was simmering on the stove; as Nestor was not in the room, Tintin took the seat freely. "Yes…? What's on your mind?"

The pipe rolled over and over between his fingertips. "Look… lad… I want you to…"

"You want me to do what?" he asked, not exactly suspicious, but cautious all the same.

"Okay, look." He closed his eyes for a second. He felt a little wretched asking Tintin this, especially after he'd set up that date for them earlier this morning. But he had been hoping Tintin would find something out that would incriminate her. But had that plan backfired. "I don't think you should be spending so much time with that woman."

"She has a name," Tintin remarked casually.

"Bienvenue. Whatever. Did you even hear what I just said?"

"Yeah, I heard you." Tintin lifted the book onto his lap and aimlessly flipped the pages, completely unconcerned with what was written on them.

"And…?" the Captain asked cautiously.

"If you want me to wait until after this is all cleared up, I understand. I might not agree, but I get it."

"I mean… there's not going to be an _after._" Realising how strange that sounded, he quickly added, "I mean, not for her."

Tintin stared at Haddock like he had suddenly begun speaking in tongues. Haddock watched his expression change from confused to aghast as he slowly put together what he was saying. "You don't mean to say that… you don't think that _she _did it?"

"You took the words from my mouth."

"But that's crazy! She's a girl!"

"I know. That's why you refuse to believe it." The Captain got to his feet, pipe in hand. He added, a sarcastic ring to his voice, "It's a little something called hormones, lad."

"Hormones?" He stared at the Captain, thoroughly confused.

Haddock's jaw slackened. "Don't tell me—"

"Snakes, Captain, I know what you're _talking_ about," he interrupted quickly. The room suddenly became a good deal warmer. "I don't know what you _mean, _is 's that got to do with anything?"

"Everything," said Haddock, rolling his eyes. "You're sixteen, lad. Your head is probably spinning every time you see a pretty face—whether you admit it to yourself or not. You're going to look back one day and realise how mad you—"

"Ca—captain! What does that have to do with it?" Recoiling back just a bit, Tintin's eyes narrowed as he squinted at Haddock, as if suddenly he wasn't seeing right. The book, forgotten, dropped to the floor.

"Tintin, Odette _did it._" Agitation was creeping into Haddock's voice. "That girl's playing you like a piano."

"Give me one reason why she'd do it."

"She was being blackmailed. She'd already killed one man. What other proof do you need? Put the pieces together, lad!"

Tintin pursed his lips, making Haddock think of an angry housewife. "Then who killed the man on the 19th?" he challenged.

"That—what—I don't know! Who said they have to be the same pers—"

"Yeah!" Tintin interrupted. "You don't know! But _I _know, Captain, that she didn't do it. I know she didn't! Captain, you have to believe me: she didn't kill her husband, and she didn't kill Bastian, either."

The silence that ensued was filled only with the sound of the wind, and their heavy breathing.

After the pause, Haddock said, in a much quieter tone. "Yeah, I know, Tintin."

"Y—you do?" His eyes widened.

"I know that you think you know. But it's only because you like her."

"What? I don't like her." He could feel his cheeks start to burn again. "Not in that way. But I honestly do think she was being manipulated, and I can't see why—"

"Lad. _You're_ being manipulated." He raised his hands to the sky hopelessly. "She has a pretty face, I admit it, and you don't get around girls much, but—"

"And why's that?"

The words stopped the Captain in his tracks. He swallowed, unsure how to answer. "Why—why's what?" he repeated.

"I asked, why's that? Why don't I have a girlfriend?"

"I—I don't know," he stammered. He began to feel frustrated, and repeated, with more anger in his voice, "Look, I don't know! You're too busy. But—but you don't have to be, you can stop doing so much reporting, cut back on the adventu—"

"It's because I'm a scrawny little ginger who's barely five and a half feet tall!" Grey eyes blazing, he sprung to his feet and wheeled on Haddock, his face blazing red with anger. "That's why! I'm 16 and I look 10 and don't you dare try to deny it. The last girl who held me was my mom, 12 bloody years ago!" he shouted, stamping his foot for emphasis. "And Haddock, if there's one girl in this world who'll be nice to me, I'm sorry if I don't want to charge her with cold-blooded murder!"

The words dried up in the Captain's throat. He'd never seen Tintin _like _this before. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't move right. "Tintin…" He bit his lip, taking a hesitant step forward. "Tintin, I…"

"Don't. Just don't. Okay?" Shaking his head, he leaned against the back of the chair, his hands braced against the frozen wrought-iron. "Just… please. Don't do this."

"I'm sorry," Haddock said softly.

"No you're not," said Tintin, almost casually, as if he was simply stating a fact. "You'll keep on believing whatever you want to believe. How can you be sorry you said what you did?"

The Captain swallowed. Tintin, as usual, was right. "I just want you to see objectively," he said weakly.

"Yeah, well, y_ou _try seeing objectively. Next time you're sober enough." His voice broke off jaggedly, and the boy seemed to blanch, suddenly realising he had gone much further than he had intended.

There was a long pause.

"Okay," seemed to be all the Captain could say.

Tintin stood there, his chest heaving, his hands closed tight into two fists. It was only a few beats before, muttering something about being sick, he staggered from the room, as quickly as his numbing body could take him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Tintin/Haddock arguments are so incredible (and hard) to write, since they almost never happen in the comics. I don't think they're _terribly _OOC, considering that as innocent and idealistic Tintin may seem… he is still a human (gasp). And of course, there's nothing unusual about Haddock getting angry. Anyway, let me know how you think it went, if it was too OOC or whatever. ¡Gracias! (that's my three years of Spanish, coming in handy right there)

Yeah, I know the plot is super slow right now, but it's going to be fast again next chapter!

But until then… reviews?


	13. I Could Have Saved Him

**Chapter Twelve**

The fire crackled golden-red, scattering tiny sparks of heat across the frigid room, like a breath of warm air in the middle of the arctic: doing absolutely nothing. The windows stood black and tall; the wind screamed, beating against the sides of the house, sending the shutters flying forward and then slamming back against the walls.

Tintin's eyes glared at the flames as they danced back and forth, feebly attempting to warm the room with their light. A book rested in his lap, unread; Snowy sat at his feet, yawning and occasionally gnawing at Tintin's shoelaces. The boy didn't even notice.

The slow, murmured sounds of the guest's conversation drifted lazily across the room. The six of them were in close vicinity, having drawn the furniture closer to the unfortunately small fireplace, but their murmured tones prevented Tintin from hearing any more than a scattered word or two. They weren't talking much, anyway; Hazar and Freeh muttered to each other in German, Vogel butting in whenever they switched to English, and that was all. Wrapped in a blanket, Odette sat on the floor, side-by-side with the fireplace, knees drawn up to her chest, clasping her legs tight against her. Like Tintin, she stared at the fire, watching the embers flicker and crack. Even Nestor was in the room, sitting at the far corner, resting in an easy chair and finishing up a leather-bound copy of _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_; Plato's _Republic _was in close proximity on an end table near him, waiting to be devoured. The flickering, dying firelight cast a weak glow, accompanied by wavering shadows, over the entire room, showing the truth: everybody was here.

Except for the Captain.

"…never heard of it, General…"

The wind whistled through beneath the doorframe; the fire popped, sending a cascade of sparks flying forward.

"…somewhere northwest of here…"

The soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed painfully loud and slow. Glancing at the clock face, Tintin saw the time was 6:47. It wasn't late; it felt like it should be brighter in here. But it was so dark—so dark and black. He realised he hadn't seen the Captain for almost five hours. Well, he wasn't surprised. He had hurt him, hurt him badly; it was absolutely tearing at him. He felt disgusted and downright bitter. Haddock hadn't deserved what he'd said. Tintin knew it now, and he had known it even while he had been shouting.

He couldn't just sit here another five hours, idly flipping pages and pretending like he wasn't sick inside. Without bothering to excuse himself, he stood, the book falling from his lap and dropping on the floor, and exited the room, ignoring the suspicious glances of the guests. Let them think what they want to think, he thought unhappily.

The foyer was big and cavernously empty. It was also cold. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter, and crept up the steps, hearing each step ring out, echo against the frozen marble.

When he knocked on the Captain's bedroom door, he received no reply.

"Please… please open up," he called uncertainly, wetting his lips. His hand formed a fist, hesitantly tapping against the painted wood. "Look, I'm… I didn't mean what I said."

The silence from the other side of the door made Tintin feel even more horrible than he had before. It confirmed his fears: he had gone too far.

"Please…" he pleaded weakly. "Please, I'm sorry."

Time dragged; each second that passed only increased his feelings of guilt, made him wonder just how much damage he'd really done. He knew he had been rude, inexcusably rude, but it just wasn't like the Captain to give him the silent treatment. Streams of insults, uncontrollable rage, drunken rampages maybe, but not silence. He couldn't wait any longer. Tintin gingerly reached for the handle and gave it a slight twist.

He felt a dull shock when he saw it was unlocked. The door opened soundlessly, and he stepped in.

The bedroom felt eerily silent. That was the first thing he noticed: silence. The absence of something. Haddock was nowhere to be seen, but the strangeness of it was that it looked for all the world as if the Captain was still in the room. Candles placed here and there flickered, and the scarlet drapes on the Henry IV canopy enshrouded a perfectly made bed, a folded newspaper resting neatly on top. The marble fireplace burned on faintly, embers still glowing—dimly, though, as if it had been lit hours ago and neglected since.

When Tintin walked forward, suspiciously, he noticed that every drawer was neatly closed. Everything was in order. But still, the Captain wasn't there. His concern growing rapidly, he searched the corners—as if he would be hiding there— the en suite bathroom, even the closet.

"Captain? Captain, answer me!"

But the only reply was the howling of the wind against the house.

This didn't add up. It wasn't like they were on some adventure and he had been kidnapped. It wasn't like he could've gotten trapped or lost. They were at Moulinsart Hall, for heaven's sake.

It wasn't like they were in _danger._

Perplexed, Tintin slowly sunk onto Haddock's bed. He stared blankly out the panelled window, wondering where on earth the Captain could have gone on a night like this. Certainly he hadn't left the house, and Tintin didn't remember him mentioning going down to the cellars. What could he have had to do?

He could only look for him, and hope nothing had gone wrong. Tintin began to search, and had scoured every room in the upstairs floor and begun his search of the servant's quarters, when it hit him.

_There's a murderer in this house._

He went nearly numb with shock. Dread clawed at his gut, eating away at him, consuming his entire body. They were in danger. What was he thinking? Of course they were in danger—he could be trapped—dying—dead—

_No! He's not dead! Think, Tintin! Where would they have taken him?_

He wasn't upstairs; Tintin was fairly sure of that. He had already searched the entire left wing, and the upper storey of the right. As for the cellar, only Nestor had the key. _Where else? _The tower came to mind, but he quickly remembered that their butler had the key for that as well; besides, you couldn't exactly drag someone up those stairs. With respect to the right wing—the parts he hadn't searched—he couldn't really think of anywhere where you could hide a body.

_A body. _He felt sick just thinking the phrase. They were words meant for criminals and random murder victims. They weren't meant for the Captain.

_But where?_

He knew Nestor was safe and sound, so they hadn't killed him and stolen the keys.

_Where's the Captain? _Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes tight, trying to force his brain to think. Nowhere. He couldn't think of anywhere. And he was wasting precious time. _Where is he? God, help me, where? Where's the Captain?_

Oh snakes.

Not outside.

Tintin's heart stopped. His body felt immobile, but his feet moved without urging. He didn't bother to put on his boots, his scarf, anything. His coat was already on, and he ripped his ivy cap from the before flinging open the door and tearing into the outside.

White, he thought. Everything was white.

The white was a part of the coldness, the burning, freezing coldness beating on him from all sides, suffocating him with its sheer power.

"Captain!" He tried to scream, but his voice was swallowed up in the wind. "Captain, where are you?"

He staggered forward, his feet sinking into the knee-deep snow. It bit into his dress socks, soaked through his jacket and plus-fours, covered every part of him. Tintin was all but blind. The white was everywhere. Wherever he looked. He could barely even see the Hall.

He wouldn't give up. Not now. Not ever.

"Captain! Please!" The desperation was obvious in his voice now. "Please, answer me!"

Tintin began to panic. His heart pounded in his chest, fluttering as fear overrode his composure. Struggling on through the snow, Tintin began to despair that he would never find the Captain.

But it wasn't long before he saw him.

Bound and gagged, and lying in the snow.

/

Haddock's body was heaped with blankets. Every spare stick of firewood had been placed in the fireplace. The curtains were drawn. The doors were closed. The bedroom was the warmest room in the entire house. But there was still a deathly chill inside of Tintin, possessing his entire body, and it refused to go.

He had argued with the Captain. He had insulted him. He had hurt him.

And now the man was a step away from dying.

His face was white; his body was limp and lifeless. If not for the tiny, feeble breaths that rose and fell unevenly in his chest, Haddock would be taken for dead.

Tintin's head was buried into his arms, his face pressed into the sheets on Haddock's bed. His back rose and fell with shallow, staggering breaths.

_Please don't, _he begged silently. _Please don't. Please don't._

He didn't hear the door open; he only felt the burst of cold air.

"I… brought you some tea," Odette said, falteringly, entering the room with a silver tray.

The boy made a feeble attempt at raising his head. What she saw of his face was pale; the dark circles around his red-rimmed eyes were only accentuated by the whiteness of his skin. He took a shivering breath, and she thought he was going to burst into tears. But she was wrong.

"Can you be so sorry for something you die?" he choked, his voice hoarse and shaking.

She wasn't sure what to say.

"Tintin, I'm…"

"Please… Odette…" But he didn't say what it was he wanted her to do. His head fell back into his arms before that, and she could only guess.

"Okay," she said softly, setting the tray on table near the door. "I'll go."

/

Music.

He raised his head from his arms. His eyes seemed blurry; the room seemed vague and shimmered softly. He glanced at the grandfather clock, and saw that it was 7:30. Half an hour had passed since he'd found the Captain.

He glanced at the man before leaving the room. He was still breathing. As much as he loathed to go, the music drew him, somehow.

Tintin crossed down the hallways, down the stairs, finding his way to the maritime gallery.

The music softly flooded the room, drifting from the gallery. It wafted through the marble halls of Moulinsart— the sound of slow, mournful piano. Delicate fingers slowly caressed the keys, brushing each note with the skill of a professional pianist. It was a heart-clenching piece. Nostalgic. Sentimental. The kind that made an ache run through you. It made you remember; it reminded you of times that you wished you could go back to, when everything was simpler and carefree.

Odette noticed Tintin standing there, in the doorway, but she didn't stop playing.

"Silent Night," he murmured.

"She— my mother used to sing it to me every night," she mused, and slowly leaned back, letting her hands fall from the keys; the song broke off. She stared at the piano for a long time, as if wondering why the music had stopped. "When everything had gone wrong, it made things seem okay. When… bombs would fall… and you could hear your neighbours screaming next door…"

"All is calm, all is bright," Tintin said quietly.

She nodded. "Whenever bad things are happening, I think about it. The song."

"Like now?"

"Like now. It just… seems to make the world out to be a better place." She hung her head, and he could see expression change as a painful memory crossed her face. "But I haven't sung it since then. Since the end of the War. They… the Germans burned down Bocholt. Almost everybody died. Serge and I were young, we escaped, but my…"

He said, "I'd like to hear you sing it."

She glanced up at him, and laughed softly. "That'll be your Christmas present."

"Cheeky little blighter." A warning bell was going off in Tintin's mind; part of him was saying to leave, to obey the Captain and leave. But the Captain had never foreseen this. He hadn't imagined how starved Tintin would be for someone to talk to.

The reference to their previous conversation made her grin, but her face just as quickly darkened, and she asked, "How's the Captain?"

"He's… he… he's strong, you know? I think he'll survive." Tintin made his way to the sofa and sat down, his elbows resting on his knees, hands crossed in front of him. "I just— I just wish I could do more."

"You're doing the best you can," she told him quietly.

For a long time, neither of them seemed to have anything to say, until Tintin asked, "When did you learn to sing?"

"Oh, when I was… very young. My mother was a professional singer."

"Ever get into theatre?"

"Not me, but Serge used to be an actor. You should've seen him—he could play anybody," she added, a half-smile forming on her face. Her eyes seemed to brighten with the memory. Chuckling a bit, she added, "He was the perfect old man. I didn't even recognise him half the time."

"That's amazing."

"He was amazing. Life with him was… amazing. He and I worked together with the theatre for years. Those were the best years of my entire life. Until…"

"Until what?" he asked gently.

"He finally came into his father's inheritance." She shook her head, a distant look replacing the brightness in her eyes. "That was why everything happened." Quietly, almost imperceptibly, she added, "That was when I killed him."

"Odette, why did you do it?"

"I don't know." She lifted her hands half-heartedly, and then let them drop back to her sides. She repeated, "I don't know."

"Odette, I don't think you did it."

"But they said I did!" Almost angrily, she rose from the piano bench, but lost strength and took a step back, pressing her hands against the piano for balance. "And I was right there, my hands were— were—"

"Were what?" he asked, a little too sharply.

"I can't remember!" Her words fell out, tumbling, one after another, and she stood there, gasping for breath. "I can't remember, Tintin, I don't know! I can't remember what I was doing, what I thought I was trying to accomplish… why on earth I…"

"It's okay," he said, after a pause. He couldn't think of what else he was supposed to tell her.

"I know. I've… I've accepted it. It didn't happen yesterday; it's been eleven months." She closed her eyes for a moment. "11 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days. Funny I can remember that… but not why I did it."

"Numbers make more sense than emotions." He wasn't sure why he'd said it, but as he did, he realised how true it was. "Most things do. Tracking down criminals… solving mysteries… that's all logical. It's just people's hearts that don't make much sense."

"I think they do," she said, nonchalantly.

"Not to me. I don't understand them at all. Maybe when you see the world more, you stop wanting people to make sense." He shook his head. The images that those words had triggered flashed into his mind, and he began to feel sick. "Why would somebody tie a seventy year old woman to her bed and burn her flat to the ground? Why would somebody go out into a city and butcher people, just to do it? Why would a man brutally rape a six year old boy? The kid's too young to even know what's going on, all he knows is…" Tintin's voice trailed off vacantly, and a brief, hunted look flickered over his eyes. After a moment, he shook his head, and let drop into his hand. "I don't know, I just don't. People _don't _make sense. If they do, it's not the kind of sense I want to understand."

"I'm sorry," she said softly. Her eyes were filled with pained comprehension as she crossed the room, settling onto the couch next to him. "I guess I just don't think about that."

"Why would you?" He barked with laughter; the sound of it was empty. "But don't go by me. I don't even make sense to myself."

"I can't imagine what you must've… gone through."

"Yeah," Tintin agreed, crooking the corner of his lips into a bleak half-smile. "You can't. But it's okay. You know? My life has been okay. I don't mind it." He slapped his hands on his knees, exhaling deeply as he leaned back further against the couch. "At least…"

"You've never murdered somebody yourself."

"…Yeah."

There was a long silence.

"But… look…" Tintin paused, fumbling for the right words. "Even if you only had him—Serge—for a year… I say you're lucky, anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And, and no matter what happened, you've had way more than I ever had. So that has to count for something."

When he finished, he suddenly wasn't sure if he had said the right thing. He knew he'd never before said anything like it. Emotions _were_ harder than criminals. But he knew almost immediately he had said the right thing. Her expression seemed to soften, and she looked up at him with such an look of—of gratitude, sincerity, warmth, he wasn't sure—but he saw her eyes weren't as scared anymore. That shy, hunted look was beginning to leave. As if, for the first time, the thought had occurred to her that maybe she hadn't done it.

She didn't say anything. Standing quietly, she wrapped her arms around her body, wrapping Tintin's jacket even tighter around herself. He wasn't sure what she was doing, but saw her going towards the piano. Her hand rested on the top for a moment, and her shoulders heaved gently as she sighed.

"I wish I could know if I did it," she said.

"Yeah."

"I want to believe…" Odette half-turned towards him, a kind of desperate hope beginning to break through the walls she'd put up in her face. But it hadn't broken through completely, and she was still hesitant, unsure of herself. "I want… but I just… I just don't know."

"Once the storm's over, we'll figure it all out." He stretched and stood, easing his way off the sofa. "You're not going back to prison. I swear it."

"You do?" Her face was so hopeful, so trusting, that it stabbed through his heart.

"Of course." He reached forward and touched her arm gently. "Odette, don't think about it anymore, okay?"

She nodded.

"Why don't you go relax? Read? Take a bath, before the water heater stops working?" He said it a little jokingly, but they both knew he was being partly serious. It seemed as if more and more appliances were shutting off with each passing moment.

"That's a good idea," she agreed.

"I can't wait until Christmas." He grinned, a little sheepishly. "I do really want to hear you sing Silent Night. I bet you have a beautiful voice."

She smiled and looked down, blushing softly. "It's going to be a good Christmas. And besides, by then, the Captain will be better."

"I hope," he said quietly.

Whatever happiness that had drifted into their conversation paled and drifted away.

"You're doing your best," she told him. She'd said it only a few minutes ago, but it seemed only right to say it again.

"I know. I am. I'm trying. It's just… I've never… I've never lost…" He sat there, his expression suddenly overwhelmed and completely lost. He gave up trying to act calm, and took a step backwards, landing softly on the couch. It was only a matter of moments before his head dropped in his hands and he started to cry.

Tintin had thought he wouldn't want anybody near him when he was crying. But when Odette sat down beside him, he realised that there was nothing he could have wanted—or needed—more.

"Respirez. Respirez, mon ami. Vous êtes bon.1" Moving beside him, so that they were touching, Odette slipped her arm around his shoulders. "He's going to be alright."

They weren't deep, body-racking sobs, only shivering breaths. But he could still barely force himself to speak. "I should've been there," he choked, his words muffled by his hands. "I should've… I should've been…"

"You're sixteen. You can't do everything." Her voice was a soothing whisper, and she dipped her head down to look at him, resting the back of her hand against his face, and then bringing it up and gently stroking his mussed quiff. "You can only… you can only work with what you have. And he's going to live. You know that. He's going to live."

"I'm sorry." He shook his head, dragging his hands down his face and finally letting them fall into his lap. "I didn't mean to start."

"He's your father. Almost, anyway. I think you're allowed."

Forcing back a sob, he smiled thinly. He felt a little embarrassed, crying into Odette's arms, but remembered that she had done the same to him and felt better. And there was something else about her that made it seem okay. He wasn't sure what it was until the words were already coming out of his mouth.

"You remind me of my mother."

A grin formed on her lips. "I'm not _that _much older than you."

"No, but she was only twenty the last time I…" But, cutting himself off mid-sentence, Tintin shook his head again and turned away. "Anyway, I—I think I should go back upstairs."

"Okay. You take care, Tintin."

The sincerity in her voice was warming. And Tintin was cold. Even though he was still choking back tears, he felt his heart lifting, and a smile rose, unbidden, to his lips.

"I will," he promised, nodding. "You too, Odette. Stay safe."

/

He stood there for a long time, once he had closed the door to the Captain's bedroom and entered the sanctuary of warmth it had become.

The Captain wasn't shivering. He wasn't even moving. Somehow, that was the worst part of all.

He made his way to the Captain's bedside, and laid a hand on his face. Just a hint of warmth hid there, beneath the grey, ice-like skin. A delicate flame of life. It wouldn't take much to snuff it out.

_I could've saved him, _Tintin thought, and the words made his heart feel even more sick and swollen.

He found himself swearing to find whoever did this. He realised he didn't care. He didn't care who did it. Whoever hurt the Captain like this was going to pay.

Unless, maybe, if it was Odette.

The boy stood there watching the Captain for a little while longer, watching every breath, as if waiting for the moment when it would just stop. She had been right: the Captain was his father. It was like his father was dying. His _father _was dying. And he couldn't do anything.

It only took a moment of hesitation before he slipped in next to Haddock. It was painfully hot beneath the layers of heavy blankets, but he forced himself not to mind; Tintin kept himself close to the man, praying that whatever warmth he had in his body could somehow thaw the Captain, to stir warm life back into his friend.

_Somebody in this house tried to kill Haddock._

What if he woke up, only to find himself next to a corpse?

_And it would all be my fault._

"Please…" he whispered, laying his cheek against Haddock's chest, feeling the delicate heartbeat beneath. "Please… don't give up…" And because Haddock was asleep—because Tintin could—he added, "Please, mon père_._2 Don't... don't die..."

The room was dark and silent, and the only sounds were the crackling fireplace and the snow battering against the big, empty house.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

A cold, wet night… listening to the Jane Eyre soundtrack… hearing the rain and wind beating against the house… everything dark and quiet… ahhhh, writing moods.

Maybe that's why I just wrote a 4000 word chapter. Lol, this chapter is long enough to have been two. But who cares? It works either way. Oh, and btw, whenever I have words in French/German/Flemish/Whatever, I'll be adding the translations at the bottom for now on.

I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it. Because then, you'd be head over heels in love with the book, you'd be enjoying it so much. And OC's are boss: it's just a fact.

* * *

_1. __Breathe. Breathe, my friend. It's okay._

_2. __Father (That really confused my little brother. He thought "mon père" meant "my rose." It was a little awkward…)_


	14. Murder, pt 2

**Chapter Thirteen**

The wrinkled, yellowed paper lay on the oak desk, an autumn leaf against the dark, smooth surface. Odette didn't notice it at first. She was sitting at the edge of her bed, her feet hitched against the baseboard, her chin in her hands. Her brown hair tumbled, loose and wavy, down her back, and occasionally she would stop and tuck a strand of hair back behind her ears. Her mind was miles away from Moulinsart, so it was a while before she even saw it.

When she did, she was confused; then she remembered that they'd let her keep it, and it had been there, in her dress pocket, the entire train ride here. She must've left it on the desk when she'd been changing into Tintin's clothes. Swinging herself off the edge of the mattress, she crossed to the desk. Her fingers slowly closed over the edge of the wrinkled sheet of paper.

_Will you marry me?_

_—Serge_

A trembling smile came to her face, and she unconsciously lifted a hand to her mouth. But that hand was used to stifle the cries that threatened to break out from her lips, as memories began to flood her, overwhelm her.

Taking the paper in both hands, she folded it once, twice, and held it against her heart, her shoulders shaking with each sob. "Why did I kill you?" she choked. "Why did I kill you? You were everything… you were everything…"

Odette just wanted to be left alone. To forget about him. She had let go of him when he was dangling over the bridge, but she hadn't been able to let go of the memories.

_Or what's left of them, anyway._

Wrapped in her shattered remembrances, curling deeper and deeper into them. And eventually, holding the paper close to her, she drifted into sleep.

/

Odette awoke.

It took her a long moment to remember where she was. It was dark, but not too dark—perhaps early morning, with the faint pink of the sun was just beginning to crest the black morning clouds. It felt like winter inside. The ashes in the ancient fireplace lay cold and white, like fresh snow, and trickles of wind slipped through the cracks in the old, splintered windowpane.

Her wrists and ankles burned. They burned like they'd been rubbed with red-hot brands. The rest of her hurt, too, but in a more tender, bruised way. When she looked down, taking stock of herself, she could see the tell-tale black and purple splotches vandalising her otherwise pure white skin.

Outside the window, antiquated street lamps, dressed in tattered Christmas wreathes, stood cold and imposing, flickers of gas-fuelled candlelight long since gone. They drifted, wind-scattered, down the street: torn newspapers, shabby pine boughs, caroller booklets, shreds of holly and ivy. They drifted along with the powdery snow, carried up and about with each bitter gust of wind, sent flying forward and swooping backward, circling around and around.

She tried to sit up, but couldn't; she realised she was still bound. A part of her, a voice trapped inside for far too long, begged to scream, at the very least burst into tears, but she refused to humour it. _Keep calm, _she ordered. _Don't cry. Strong. That's what you are._

And it was true. She was strong. At least, she could be, when she wanted to be—at least when Serge was there. But taking the trip to hades, two nights in a row?—that could drain the strength out of anybody.

A thin keen escaped her lips as the handle to the bedroom door twisted. The door creaked as it opened.

"And how are you this morning, darling?" His voice was syrupy, dripping with sickly sweetness, almost loving, completely mocking.

The slow drag of his footsteps, across the bare wooden floor, was the most horrible sound she'd ever heard.

"I brought you breakfast in bed."

She swallowed, trying to fight back the vomit threatening to rise in her throat. She had nothing left to vomit—she hadn't eaten since the party, two days ago— but she could still feel her gorge rising, with each word. His mere intonation was enough to make her sick.

His fingers found her chin, and he held it almost lovingly, before twisting her head towards his face. She felt the soft pressure of his lips against her forehead. She would have yanked her head away, but every muscle in her neck was sore, and she was forced to allow him to do it. But she could still keep her eyes away. She didn't have to look at him. She didn't have to submit.

"Look at me, darling." He kissed her again, harsher this time. "Look at me."

Her chest heaved without permission, but she fought back the sobs of fear, barely managing to choke out a strangled: "Why?"

"Because I can make you." His hand trailed down her face, brushing a mussed, tangled lock of hair away from her forehead. "Because you can't stop me. I said _look at—"_

Odette jolted awake.

Her heart was pounding. Her eyes flit around her surroundings, the familiar four poster bed, the desk, the windows swathed in heavy scarlet. She was at Moulinsart. She was safe. He couldn't hurt her now.

Feeling as if she had just gotten out of danger, all the tension in her body dissolved, and she didn't have the strength to fight anymore: she could force away the sobs, but the tears came running down her face.

She looked down and saw the letter from Serge, lying on a crumpled heap on the floor. She reached down and picked it up. She stared at it's contents for a long time, her eyes going over the five words over and over again.

It was a long time before she turned over the letter and saw the postscript, in fresh ink, written on the back.

/

**December 23**

_Warmth._

Tintin woke to warmth.

He felt drowsy, almost drugged, and he wondered if he had been chloroformed. But no, he was at Moulinsart. His face was pressed against Haddock's chest, and rose and feel softly with each breath the Captain took. Part of him wanted to get up, but it was warm, and he was comfortable, thought he couldn't exactly remember _why _he was here, and he didn't want to go.

_Oh snakes._

Now he remembered.

Cautiously, hesitantly, the boy turned around, facing Haddock. Feeling sick with dread, he reached out and rested his hand against the man's forehead.

Warm.

"Dieu merci,"1 Tintin moaned, his body going limp with relief_. _Not exactly sauna warm—more like room temperature warm. But he wasn't cold, and that was all Tintin could've hoped for. Easing himself up, he fell back against the pillow and sighed. He wasn't out of danger yet—that was for certain—but he was going to live.

Tintin looked at the Captain for a long moment. His skin, tanned and weathered from ages at sea. The lines around his mouth, the grey beginning to streak his hair and beard. His face relaxed in sleep, Tintin could see the kindness beneath the tough, rugged front his many years and their many adventures had forced upon him. He knew that the Captain hadn't meant to hurt him: he would never do that. He had only been trying to help. Even still, Tintin wasn't sure yet if he would follow the Captain's advice; he liked Mademoiselle Bienvenue, and he—

Bienvenue.

Tintin sat straight up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. His body, tired and wanting to fall back against the pillow, grumbled at the sudden movement, but he barely noticed.

_Bienvenue._

He'd heard that name before. He had—he knew he had. Somewhere. A couple months ago… perhaps a year…

Some sort of case? Wasn't that it?

His brain was a disoriented jumble of thoughts and half-formed ideas, whirring about like the snowflakes outside the window. All but forgetting about the Captain, he whipped the heavy blankets aside and swung himself out of bed, his feet hitting softly the carpeted floor below. After tucking Haddock back in, and placing a still sleeping Snowy beside—to compensate for the lack of warmth Tintin's absence would bring—he left the room, quietly closing the door behind.

Tintin had chosen his bedroom because of the fact that it had two closets. Not just any old closet, mind, but two walk in closets. It wasn't because he had a massive wardrobe (in fact, his entire wardrobe consisted of a couple blue pullovers and two pairs of plus-fours) but because he had a bit of an obsession with the papers. He was a reporter: when he wrote an article, he wanted to keep the paper. He was also a detective: when he found an article that caught his interest, or at least the world's interest, he kept it for future reference. His filing cabinets had consumed the first closet, and were beginning to creep into the second. It was this second closet that he entered.

_11 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days. _

That would be December 28 of last year.

Running his finger down the dates labelled on each of the drawers, he made his way to December and slid it open.

_Dec. 18 Italian Air Raid destroys Dessye Palace_

_Dec. 23 Lindbergh Family Leaves US_

_Dec. 28 Socialite Murders Husband For Money_

_Dec. 30 Charity Event Ends in Tragedy_

It wasn't until Tintin had gotten to the 31st, and was beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong, that he realised that the paper on the 28th could have been talking about Odette.

_Odette, a socialite? _

He flipped back the files was almost frantic haste, but when he got back to the 28th, he found he almost didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to see what they had to say about her.

_This is the only way you can clear her name, _Tintin reminded himself. Steeling his nerves, he reached in and pulled out the article.

_Socialite Murders Husband For Money_

_Monsieur Sergei Davignon is considered dead after a fatal fall from the Durchwasser Bridge in the outskirts of Bree, a city 5.5 km from the Davignon's hometown. An unnamed witness claims to have seen his wife, Madame Odette Bienvenue Davignon, push him into the water. She has refused to comment to the press._

_The Davignon family estate, valued at approximately ₣230,000, is believed to have been the incentive for the late M. Davignon's murder. As there are no other claims to the estate, his death would have left Mme Davignon with the estate and its contents. _

_The funeral service will be held on January 1__st__, followed by the trial on January 9__th__. The family requests no comments._

He replaced the article in the folder, still staring at the words even as he put them back in their place.

He couldn't imagine it. He couldn't see Odette killing Serge for his money. Of course, ₣230,000 was quite a lot of money, especially in the light of the awful Depression sweeping Europe, but she had sounded as if she'd been happier when she and Serge _hadn't _been rich. It didn't add up.

The drawer slid shut with a screech. Reaching for the drawer below, he forced it open and reached for the first article inside. Sure enough:

_Jan 8. Davignon Trial_

But that article had nothing to say, only legal stuff. Thumbing through files, he finally located the one he was looking for.

_Jan 11. Davignon Indicted_

_At 6 PM, Mme Odette Davignon's plaintiff, an American lawyer by the name of Norman Vogel, convinced the judge that the defendant is responsible for the death of her husband, M. Sergei Davignon._

A chill ran through his body. Vogel? Tintin dimly remembered Vogel mentioning having attended the trial, but he had never said that he had been an active participant. So Vogel was Odette's prosecutor?

Tintin stopped reading, convinced that he had found what he was looking for. He tried putting it all together, to see if it made sense: Vogel wanted Odette in prison, so he convinced the judge that Odette was responsible, and she was indeed sent to prison. On her way to Berlin to be transferred to the prison there, she was caught in the blizzard and had to stop at Moulinsart Village. Freeh, who was teaming up with Vogel, heard about the blizzard and met up with Odette at the village, so he could take her to Vogel. But because of the storm, they all ended up at Moulinsart Hall, where Vogel and Freeh were slowly picking off the people they had been previous blackmailing.

But it still didn't make sense; it had just got a whole lot more complicated. Why did Vogel want so badly for Odette to go to prison? Did he murder Odette's husband and didn't want to be indicted? But why would he have killed him? And it's not as if he could have planned the snowstorm. And who was the man who had been killed on the 19th? And why would you kill someone you were making money from?

All the same, he still had some new theories to go off of. Perhaps over the next couple of days he could glean more clues, and when the storm was over they would all be arrested and the police could do truth-tests and background searches all they wanted.

He rubbed his hands together, as if brushing dirt off his fingers, and closed the cabinet. He stared at if for a moment, after it had closed; he was unable to tear his mind away from it's contents. It was so… well, so surreal to see Odette's name in the papers. It seemed so wrong. And it was even stranger to think he had saved those articles last year. It was an insane coincidence.

_There's no such thing as coincidence, _he reminded himself. Reporters, let alone reporter/detectives, let alone reporter/detectives that also believed in God, didn't believe in coincidence. There was no point: even if it didn't make sense in your lifetime, everything would eventually fit together, and maintaining that it wouldn't made you a bad reporter, detective, and believer. But Tintin wasn't interested in it making sense outside his lifetime. As far as he knew, he had a matter of days, perhaps even hours, before the storm stopped, or before the murderer claimed his next victim, and he needed to clear Odette before then.

Standing, Tintin made his way out of the closet, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a very long time before he could leave his room.

He was walking down the hallway when heard the voices. They were low, secretive. Both young. It took him a moment to place them, simply because he hadn't been expecting it.

Hazar was murmuring, "…don't know if this is a good idea…" He took a step closer to the door, and for a moment, Tintin thought he was going to open it. Be he didn't; it sounded as if he was merely sitting down, in a chair that happened to be near to the door. "I guess we should, just to be safe."

Odette's voice suddenly became quieter, and Tintin couldn't hear what she was saying. He could only hear Hazar's reply:

"It's settled, then."

There was a long pause, and Tintin held his breath.

The chair creaked as Hazar stood. He exhaled deeply, and Tintin could almost hear him running his fingers through his hair. "I can't wait for this to be over…"

/

Tintin felt shaken, but he hid it impeccably as he entered the drawing room. He gave the guests—sans Hazar and Odette, who were probably still upstairs—the news that the Captain would probably survive, and, as usual, searched their faces for guilty looks—there weren't any, of course—and sat down to his cup of coffee and a five-day-old newspaper that he'd already read eleven times. And he thought about Odette.

She hadn't been planning a murder.

Had she?

/

"You're sure this will work?" Hazar asked, nervously plucking at the front of his shirt. His gaze drifted down to his hands, cold and clammy with sweat, and he rubbed them on his pant legs, trying to wipe off some of the wetness. "You don't think that…"

"Nothing bad is going to happen." Odette shrugged. "I doubt it. And anyway: I know it'll help. At any rate, it's time for breakfast."

/

Tintin and Odette were downstairs.

They were drinking coffee, since there wasn't any tea. Freeh and Vogel were nowhere to be seen.

It was 10 AM, but it was dark enough to be night time. To Odette, it was another reminder that her dream hadn't been true.

Part of her—most of her—wished that she _had _looked. That she had seen his face. It would help her remember who he was. But her brain had curled up, crawled into itself like a turtle going into its shell. It didn't want her to remember. Well, she would just have to fight past that. She would remember. She would have to.

Odette closed her eyes and thought back to that day. The day at the bridge. Why had she been there? Why had Serge been there? What had they been trying to do?

But when she tried to think of that, all she could think of was the jury at her trial.

Guilty.

_Guilty._

_Guilty!_

And then the scream came.

It came from upstairs. It was an animal scream. Terrified. The most bloodcurdling thing Odette had ever heard.

Tintin jolted out of his chair, his coffee cup shattering on the floor. His eyes were frantic; his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "Did you hear that?" he panted, slowly standing up. "Where was that coming from?"

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Let's go," Odette said. Her voice was hushed with fear, but she managed to keep it steady.

He nodded, and they burst out of the door and into the foyer.

_It wasn't Odette, then, _Tintin thought, almost triumphantly. _If somebody's getting hurt, we know it wasn't Odette._

For some reason, both of them had the same idea in mind. Hazar. They ran up the stairs, their feet pounding on the marble steps, their heartbeat loping almost as quickly.

The bedroom door wasn't locked. And there was no sign of Vogel or Freeh lurking nearby. But they paused before opening the door. They weren't sure why. It wasn't as if they were afraid. But maybe they just didn't want to see what they knew they were going to. They wanted to think, for one last moment, the Vogt and the old man had been accidents. Russian roulette and a heart attack. Nothing more.

But it wasn't nothing more.

They had seen too much to believe that.

Pausing to wipe a thin trickle of sweat from his forehead, Tintin nodded at Odette. The two of them, together, opened the bedroom door.

And as they opened it, the first thing they saw was Hazar— stretched out across the bed, blood drooling from his lips, and a knife in the middle of his chest.

* * *

Oooh, cliffhanger!

**Author's Note: **I was absolutely dying writing this. If I could write this story like I would a full-length novel, everything that happened here would have happened in the course of over twenty chapters, literally.

Anyway,** reviews**? C'mon, if you've read this far without giving me a _single_ review, that's just cruel. Completely, inexcusably cruel. I need advice! I really do! I thrive on advice. Even a "The first sentence was cool, but the rest of it stunk" would do. I'm not asking you to say that, and I actually might not be terribly happy if you did, but you know what I mean. You get the picture. And for all you bosses who have reviewed: I just love you. *hug*

This is really awful timing, but my mom is banning me from writing my book for the next week (maybe longer). Apparently I write too much and need a break. :( So... sorry about the cliffhanger. I'll update as soon as I can.

* * *

1 Thank God


	15. An Awful, Twisted Murder Mystery

Sorry for the long delay. I promise I wrote as quickly as I could. I put a lot into here, so in the words of one of my favourite authors: "Go and make a cup of coffee or tea or something: this is a pretty long chapter."

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Hazar gagged, once, twice, and with a bubbling, hacking cough, splattered blood all down his body. His pale hand scrabbled around on the sheets, white linen already drenched with crimson.

"Sacrebleu." Odette's voice came out in a hushed choke. Clasping a hand over her mouth, she took a staggering step forward, but just as quickly fell back, gripping the bedpost for support.

Tintin stumbled forward and pressed his hands over the wound, ignoring Hazar's moans pleading for him to stop. "Stay with me, Hazar."

Red dripped down his chin, trailing down his neck; it trickled down to meet the bigger, larger stain that was seeping through the entire front of his shirt. He took a breath, and the sound gurgled wetly in his throat.

When Tintin had seen Vogt's body, he had been sickened—shocked—disgusted. But now, he didn't have time, or room for that. He only had one thing in mind: saving the man. Everything else—fears, feelings—they were swept out of the way. "Don't worry, we're going to save you. Just stay with me." Odette could hear the desperation now, breaking through the forced calm in his voice. "You stay with me."

Shuddering, Hazar choked, "H… help… m…"

"Stay calm, Hazar. Stay calm. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay." His hands pressed on the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. It continued to bubble upward, heedless, out of his gut and his mouth.

Hazar gagged, clawing upward at the air, a dripping hand clasping Tintin's arm with mortal panic.

The reporter jerked away, instinctively shutting his eyes tight. "What do we do?" he asked Odette, through gritted teeth. "He's dying. We have to save him!"

"He's not meant to be saved," Odette said, hollowly. Her eyes stared at his weakly convulsing body, a kind of strange emptiness in her eyes.

Tintin's tone was fierce and full of fight, unlike Odette's in every way. "Well, maybe, but we'll not give his murderer that power yet. You stay here," he ordered, already stepping away from Hazar's body and running towards the door. "I'm going to get help."

/

Help ended up equalling a very befuddled Cuthbert Calculus, plus a first aid kit that was mostly empty. Tintin opened the door to see Odette standing blankly at him and the professor, blood dripping from her hands onto the carpeting.

"Alive?"

She shook her head. Her lips were trembling. She took a staggering step towards him, but lost balance. Gripping the bedpost for support, she hung there, unable to speak, still staring at the body on the bed.

Tintin walked to her and gently touched her shoulders, guiding her to the armchair in the corner of the room.

She collapsed into it with a sob. "He's dead," she whispered. "He's dead—"

He could feel her trembling beneath his hands. She looked so scared.

He studied over at the four-poster bed, where Calculus seemed to be assessing Hazar's body to the best of his ability. The professor had donned a pair of medical gloves, but they were so covered in blood that you could barely tell.

Tintin stared bleakly at the corpse. Hazar's fingers had tensed into claws raking upward, still raised into the air. His neck looked almost crooked, his head off-kilter, as if he had died in a moment of terror. The young man seemed strangely stiffened, as if rigor mortis had already set in.

This wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. Hazar had been so young, so cocky, so full of life. That body wasn't supposed to be gaping open. Those eyes weren't supposed to be bloodshot and gazing vacantly at the ceiling.

He shuddered and looked back at Odette. And then he remembered something.

"Odette…" he began, not exactly sure how to phrase what he was about to say, and knowing that she wouldn't like it, especially not when she was so obviously shaken.

But before he had to ask, she anticipated his question.

"We… we thought that it was Vogel," she gasped. Her gaze wandered down to the carpeting, already streaked and splattered with blood. "I swear we weren't planning on killing him, we were just so scared—"

"It's okay." He said it even though he knew it was a lie. It wasn't okay. There was nothing 'okay' about this situation, and she knew it as well as he did. But he had to say something encouraging, and the only thing he could say that was encouraging, would also have to be a lie.

As if she didn't realise Tintin had understood, she added, desperately, "I swear I didn't—"

"Odette, I know."

"Great sunspots! Schuuring is dead!" the professor exclaimed, genuine shock written all over his face.

The two of them looked at Calculus dully for a moment, before returning their gazes to the wall, staring vacantly forward as they tried to think through what all this meant.

"It's down to Freeh and Vogel now."

"And it's down to us to find out which one. Especially with the Captain being…" He swallowed. "You know."

But Odette didn't seem to hear. "We're not going to know until one of them dies. And then it's be too late. Odds are one of us is going to die first." She shuddered, and finally tore her gaze from the body on the bed. "Tintin, it's so awful—"

"Odette, we're going to survive." He said it as matter-of-factly as possible, but there was a harsh, desperate urgency behind his voice.

She swallowed. "You know that's not true."

"No, I mean it." Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached forward and taken hold of her arms; he yanked her towards him so that she was looking him in the face. "We're not going to die."

"Tintin, you have to—"

"No! Are you listening to me? Odette! Are you listening to me? We're going to survive_, _Odette." She whimpered in pain, but he ignored her completely, gripping her arm tighter as he repeated, "We're going to survive. Don't you ever doubt that! We've both been through worse, you _know _that. We're going to live. We'll escape, something—"

His breath was catching in his throat; his heart was pounding like a million jackhammers.

"Tintin, you're hurting me."

He looked down at his hands: they were clasped around her arms like manacles. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, and he let go. When he saw his palms, they were covered with the half-dried blood that had been on Odette's arms. "No," he said, very quietly. "You're right. There's no point hoping now."

She couldn't bring herself to reply.

It was strange, he thought. The defeatist attitude. It had never been his before. But a lot of things had happened over the past couple of days that had never happened before. Just thinking about it, something in his chest seemed to throb. "Odette, I…" but his voice broke off. His fingertips touched his forehead, brushing against the creases gathered beneath them. After a moment, he seemed to become conscious of the dragging silence. Straightening up, he clapped his hands on his knees and said briskly, "Right. We need to get downstairs and find out where those two are."

She nodded. "Right."

"And… and bring Schuuring to the bedroom…" Glancing over the blood-splattered corpse, he couldn't bring himself to use Hazar's first name. "Snakes, I can't wait for those three to be out of the house. It's just… just horrible. We're never using that bedroom again."

For some reason, this made Odette grin a little. "No, I wouldn't either."

"While we're… moving him…tell me, what did he do that he was being blackmailed for?"

/

Moving the body was a long, bloody, tiring task. Hazar was heavier than either Tintin or Odette would have thought. While they were struggling through the hallways, Odette explained, between pants for breath, what exactly it was that Hazar had done wrong. Early this year, apparently some man had come to him and offered him a ridiculous sum to present false evidence at a trial. Hazar had jumped on the opportunity, and his evidence had led to the indictment of an innocent person- regarding murder, no less.

"Vogel also mentioned that he had been selling drugs," she added. "Not just cannabis. Cocaine, barbiturates, heroine, street methadone… not on a huge scale, but… that man… he was still pretty messed up."

"Perjury and drug dealing." Two capital offenses. That man should've been at the guillotine."

"Do you think that's why they did it? Killed him?"

"But Vogt didn't do that much. He was billions in debt, but you don't kill somebody over that."

"Unless he was the one who murdered that old man." She nodded towards the door.

"Maybe." Tintin lifted a hand to his head, closing his eyes and dipping his head with a pained frown. "But they wouldn't have known about it beforehand… so why congregate everybody together? Maybe the blackmailer wanted a meeting… and Vogt tried to kill him to get him out of the way… and now the blackmailer is… he's trying to… great snakes, it's like some awful, twisted murder mystery."

Odette looked at Tintin for a long moment. "Let's put him on the bed," she said finally.

/

Tintin shook his head, staring at Hazar's body one last time before he closed the bedroom door. The smell from the room floated into the hallway long after the door was shut, and he could feel his gorge rise.

Odette had left; she'd gotten blood all over Tintin's clothes and was changing back into her dress so Nestor could wash the now-crimson pullover and trousers.

He was all alone.

From Hazar's bedroom, Calculus came, trotting down the hallway. Tintin noticed he had his pendulum out.

"Are you looking for something?" he asked. The words seemed thick and heavy in his mouth.

"No, no, I'm looking for something. My bottle of Flunitrazepam. It's gone missing. It's quite odd. I can't imagine what anybody would want with it."

"I'm sure it's somewhere," Tintin said, unhelpfully.

"In my hair?" His hand patted his fluffy black tonsure suspiciously. "Is that your idea of a joke?"

"I'm sure it'll turn up." He left before Calculus had any time to misinterpret that, too.

/

Freeh or Vogel?

The general or the lawyer?

The man who ruthlessly butchered hundreds of innocent people, or the man who twisted the law to put innocents beneath the guillotine? Which one did it? Which one would kill the other?

Tintin suddenly realised how much he missed the Captain.

/

He went down to the pantry, but upon opening, found that, aside from a few tins of meat and crackers, there was nothing in there.

It took a couple moments for the enormity of that to sink in.

It wasn't just tea and digestive biscuits. Nestor had been careful to make sure nobody else knew that they were out of _food._

Lunchtime consisted of Tintin, Calculus, and Odette, standing at the pantry door, eating fish spread out of the can. Snowy was eating ordinary dog kibble and was sulking about it: he was used to bacon, and lunch was supposed to _be _bacon, and anything else was simply unacceptable. It was as if Tintin was punishing him, without him actually having done anything wrong. It was unacceptable.

At one point, Nestor appeared to tell them that, apart from what was in the Captain's room, they were on their last load of fuel: within hours, the entire house would be an icebox. They accepted the news almost indifferently. They polished off the last smear of fish and left the cans on the kitchen counter. They didn't talk, and somehow that made the storm outside seem even louder. The lights flickered, but it was so dark inside anyway it barely seemed to make any difference. Freeh and Vogel were gone. Where were they? Nobody had any idea, nor wanted to look for them. As far as they knew, they were already dead. But it likely wouldn't matter. They would all be frozen to death by tomorrow, anyway.

The Captain would be the first to go: he was weak, and his body was still trying to recuperate from the cold. Tintin found himself looking around the room, judging who would be next. Most likely Odette; she was thin and frail. Then Calculus or Nestor; they were both in their late fifties, and probably couldn't last long. Freeh was probably the same age, but he had a good deal of meat on his bones, so he wouldn't be next. No, after Nestor— after Nestor it would be Tintin. He would last just long enough to watch his family slowly, painfully die, and then—weak, exhausted, hopeless—he would succumb to the cold.

He knew why nobody had reacted much to Nestor's news that they were all about to freeze. It was because they had resigned themselves to death already.

He had been wrong. He had been horribly wrong.

They weren't going to survive after all.

/

Outside the window, it was black. It was only two in the afternoon, but apart from the snow that flashed pale grey against the glass, everything was black. The house shook and shuddered, and the dim, flickering chandeliers above their heads swayed slowly, one way, then the other…

The three of them—Vogel and Freeh were nowhere to be found— had congregated to the Captain's room, because it was the only place left in the house that was still remotely warm. They knew that in a matter of days- no, hours, the fuel would run out. The furniture would go next, but that couldn't last long. If the storm still hadn't died by tomorrow— he thought that was Thursday, though he couldn't be sure, he wasn't sure of anything right now— they could start taking things from the cellar.

Thursday was Christmas Eve. Christmas is almost here, he thought dimly. That was supposed to be one of the best days of the year, and they would all be dead by then. For what it was worth, the murderer wouldn't get away with anything: he would be dead too.

"This is ridiculous," Tintin muttered.

Odette was sitting by the fire, her chin on her knees, her face to the flames—much like last night, before Hazar had died and Haddock had been in danger of his life. She frowned a little, but didn't reply.

"I've been all around the world. Fighting drug lords. Dragging down criminals. I've come within seconds of losing my life. And I—and I die here in Belgium. In my own home."

He didn't get any reply, so he just sighed and moved closer to the flames. The heat from the fire hurt his skin, but he didn't move away; he felt as if he had to soak up all the heat he could, as if he could stock up and save it for later.

Tintin stood, and crossed over to the Captain's bed. The man didn't look quite as dead as he had before, but he was still in bad form. _Where did you go wrong, old friend? _Resting his hand on the top of Haddock's head, he sighed, letting his own droop. _What did we do to deserve this?_

The Captain stirred; he moaned quietly, and, for the first time since last night, his eyelids slowly cracked open.

"What happened?" The Captain's voice was deeper and more gravelly than usual, but it was _his _voice, it meant he was okay, he was going to survive.

Tintin's heart began to soar, but just as quickly fell back to earth, constricting painfully. No: he wasn't going to survive. Apart from a miracle, none of them would.

Part of him wanted to be comforting, to say that everything was all right, but even as he formed the words, they stopped in his throat. After a moment of hesitation, he said, simply, "Hazar was murdered. We're all out of fuel. Pretty much everything has taken a turn for the worst, and... and I don't think we're going to..."

"...make it? Pffft!" he scoffed; the Captain broke into a fit of coughing and it was a moment before he could add, "Don't tell me you're giving up."

Eyes on the ground, Tintin shrugged.

It obviously wasn't the reply he had been expecting. "You? You mean it?" Haddock's eyes widened: Tintin giving up? That alone was proof that the situation was serious. "But—but you can't give up. You're Tintin. You don't just 'give up'." He struggled up, even though he was wincing with pain at the motion. "There's always a way out."

"Maybe not this time, mon ami." Tintin reached forward, putting his arm around the Captain's shoulders, guiding him back down to the pillow. "You need to rest."

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but in the end, didn't try. If Tintin was giving up, there was nothing that could be done. And that was that.

They sat there, silent, for a very long time. There was just nothing to say.

"Remember that time when we caught the kitchen on fire?" Haddock asked abruptly.

Tintin frowned, remembering. And then he doubled over with laughter, nearly falling off the bed. "Sacrebleu, yes. Nestor's expression!"

"That's one thing I'll never forget," Haddock chuckled. Crossing his arms behind his head, he sighed contentedly. "Ah, good times."

That phrase quieted Tintin's laughter. Soon, there wouldn't be any more good times.

As if he could read Tintin's mind, the Captain added, "Well, if we have to die, we might as well go drunk."

He forced a grin. "You said something like that on our moon trip, and got a pretty major cardiac episode from that."

"Yeah, but I was worked up then anyway. Shouting and swearing and stuff. This is different."

Tintin shook his head bemusedly. "That's what I love about you. You're always looking for the next excuse to get intoxicated."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, preach all you want. Any Loch Lomond in the house or not?"

"None in your bedroom, anyway." Tintin had cleared all whisky from the room the moment he heard about the storm: he didn't want Haddock getting drunk without his knowing about it. With deathly danger lurking just outside the front door, something only mildly stupid—like going for a walk or opening up a window— could mean death. "I'll take a look downstairs. Got a torch?"

/

Tintin made his way down the stair case. The lights were flickering off and on, and he had a good idea that pretty soon, they would just die altogether. He kept his torch turned on just in case.

He was glad to be out of that room, to be doing something worthwhile. Well, getting Haddock drunk wasn't exactly worthwhile (it could be useful sometimes, though that was a different matter entirely); however, it was better than sitting around and waiting to die.

He was in the kitchen; the voices were coming from the drawing room. Because of this, he didn't hear them at first. But it wasn't long before he heard the shouting. He couldn't make out of any of the words, but the tone spoke more than words.

Somebody was about to get hurt.

Cradling a bottle of Loch Lomond in his arm, Tintin crept out of the kitchen, walking slowly towards the drawing room door. Pale light shone from beneath the closed door, illuminating the ground before him.

"...never get out alive..."

That was Vogel, he was sure of it.

"...put that down!"

He decided it was time he intervened.

He was only a couple steps away from the door when he heard the gunshot. His heart lurched. Feet barely touching the ground, Tintin flew through the door, his hands balled into fists. It opened with a crash, banging against the wall and splintering.

Inside the room was Freeh, who was lying on the floor, and Vogel, standing next to him. It took Tintin a moment to see the blood gushing from Freeh's body. It took him even longer to see the gun, a hand's breadth away from Vogel. But when he did, his body froze.

"You," Tintin mouthed, feel his heart turn to ice, even colder than the storm raging outside. "It was you."

Vogel took one look at Tintin and his face went white. He dove for the gun before Tintin even realised what was happening; he raised it, pointing it at Tintin's head, and pulled the trigger.

And that was when the lights turned off.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Cliffhanger again. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Anyway, reviews are always loved. Thank you everybody who reviewed last time! You made my day. I suddenly realised that people were actually reading this book! It was one of those eye-opening moments. I was super happy, and right now I'm super happy just thinking about it. That's how happy I was. I love you guys.


	16. Suffocation

**Chapter Fifteen**

Tintin's entire vision went white. Blinding pain screamed through his body, and he flew backward, slamming against the wall. He could hear himself gasping in pain. Or was that Freeh? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell where anything was. Everything was pitch black. The darkness was tangible, as if the floor he was standing on, the air he was breathing, the cold wrapping around him, were nothing more than part of this blackness that was crushing in on him at all sides.

He felt like he was drowning.

Sticky warmth trickled down his face, oozing from the bullet wound in his ear. He reached up to feel it and had to hold back a cry. The touch of his fingertip shot through the wound, stinging like a million wasps. A gasp of pain escaped, and immediately there was the sound of a gun being cocked. He couldn't tell where it was coming from—maybe the centre of the room. He was hardly paying attention. Clasping a hand to the side of his head, he tried to staunch the flow of blood. But when he accidentally felt the hole in his ear, he couldn't hold back a tiny whimper.

The gun fired. It was a small, almost pathetic sound—a sort of feeble _spfff_. Vogel had brought a silencer; he had taken every precaution. He knew as well as Tintin that gunfire would bring Odette and the Captain downstairs.

Haddock wasn't coming, and Tintin couldn't even call for help; that would ensure nothing but a bullet in his head.

He was completely alone.

The gun fired again, and Tintin could have sworn he felt the bullet brush his shirt.

_Get out, _his brain screamed at him. _Get out of here, now. _

His breath was coming faster now, in panicky breaths, but he forced himself to keep it slow, even, quiet.

It was pitch black, so Vogel had no idea where Tintin was. But if he made the slightest noise…

_Get to the bedroom. There's a fire in there. You'll be able to see Vogel; you can fight him if you can see him._

Leading Vogel there would put the Captain and Odette's life in danger. He knew that perfectly well, and therefore he knew he wasn't going to go there. But he told himself that he would, anyway, because he knew he needed a plan. He needed something in his mind, something to work towards. He was a detective. A reporter. He needed a goal in mind, even if the moment he stepped outside of the room he forgot all about it. He realised how pathetic that was, but he didn't care. All Tintin really wanted to do was get out. He didn't know where he was going, or what he thought he could do. He just had to leave. Now. He had to get out_ now._

Keeping his back against the wall, Tintin slowly crept to his left, listening for the sound of Vogel cocking the gun, walking towards him, any sound at all. But apart from Freeh's laboured breathing and the wind screaming from beneath the windowpane, everything was dead silent. He wished he could see something—anything—he found himself desperate for light, for even the slightest trace of light. The darkness was panic—spreading across his brain—black poison—dripping down him like the blood from his ear—he could feel his heartbeat quicken as he crept along the wall, inching forward—

_Bam! Bam!_

The gunshots echoed painfully loud through the room, shattering the silence of the frozen air. The smell of gunpowder and smoke drifted lazily through the air as Tintin froze, pressing his back to the wall, waiting for the familiar, sickening pain of a bullet in his body. But the shots hadn't been in his direction. Vogel still didn't know where he was.

Beneath his groping fingers, he could feel the smooth metal of the doorknob. A sigh of relief came seconds away from escaping—he forced it back just in time. Now he just had to open the door and get into the hallway…

_Please don't hear me please don't hear me please don't…_

Twisting the knob as stealthily as he could, Tintin held his breath, slowly slipping towards the open space…

_Crrrreeak…_

His heart flew into his throat. From less than a metre away, Tintin could hear Vogel stiffen. There was the quiet, almost imperceptible _click _of the hammer.

A sharp dagger of heat accompanied the bullets that whipped past Tintin's face and buried themselves into the door. Splinters flew. Pain shot through his brain; his wounded ear had been ringing already, but now he could barely hear a thing.

The amount of fear and tension in the air was so high, he felt like he was suffocating. He wasn't sure how neither of them had snapped yet. He knew it wouldn't be long before Vogel started firing haphazardly at the slightest breath, and then he would be done for.

Thinking quickly, Tintin reached down, and slipped his wristwatch from his arm. He held it for a moment, waiting, chewing on his lip, biding his time. Taking a deep breath, he threw it at the wall opposite.

The moment it made contact with the wall, the tell-tale sound of the gun, firing with a silencer, erupted in the room.

Throwing caution to the wind, Tintin yanked open the door and dashed into the hallway, swallowing back a scream as his feet pounded on the carpeted floor. His heart thudded; he could barely even catch his breath. He didn't know where he was going. He just had to get out of that room. Out of the hall, even. Just _out._

With a painful jolt, Tintin's body slammed against a wall—no, not a wall, a door! He grabbed the handle, shaking it, but it didn't open; it was locked. Locked? How could it be locked? Swearing under his breath, he looked behind, as if he could somehow see Vogel approaching in the blackness. Abandoning all hopes of entering through that door, he began to run again, keeping his fingertips brushing against the walls. He tried the next doorknob; it was locked, too.

_Of course. _His breath caught in his throat as sickening realisation crushed down on him. _I had Nestor lock all the doors so they wouldn't steal anything._

Dread coursed through his body, as sick and heavy as every heartbeat.

_There's nowhere to go. If only the lights would turn on!_ But even still, a childish part of him didn't want the lights to be on. He didn't want to turn around and see Vogel standing there, gun in hand, a twisted, bloody grin stretched over his face. He didn't want to see it, the moment before Vogel turned Tintin's brains into a shredded, bleeding mass, just like he had done to Bastian Vogt.

_Oh snakes, _he thought, _snakes, I'm dead…_

He was surrounded on two sides by wall, and on all sides by blackness. He was hit with a nauseating wave of claustrophobia, but swallowed it down. He would make it out. He knew it. He just had to find a door.

_But they're all locked! Think, Tintin! Think!_

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. There was only one room he could think of that wouldn't be locked: the kitchen. And as far as he knew, that was his only chance, if he had one at all.

He had been in the drawing room. He had exited the door he'd come from. So where was he? Where was he in relation to the kitchen? It was like his brain wasn't working, it wasn't computing, for the life of him he couldn't remember where to go—

_Just. Start. Walking._

Tintin took a step forward. And then another. He was in a hallway, he could definitely tell. He had gone a few paces down the hallway when he realised something wasn't right. His steps didn't sound right.

Gooseflesh prickled his entire body.

Moulinsart was an old house; he knew it creaked and cracked in the wind. But this didn't sound like that. It sounded… heavier, somehow. He took a hesitant step forward. Everything sounded right. He took another. And then one more. He was just beginning to walk normally again when he heard it again, and froze.

_Wait._

That hadn't been an echo, had it?

His heart began to beat faster. _Vogel was trying to match his footsteps!_ His palms were damp with sweat, but he couldn't take them from the wall, he couldn't lose his bearings, he had to keep going. His lungs pulled air too fast, too hard, he was being too loud. He couldn't help it—his feet were moving faster than he could tell them to stop—

The steps behind him had stopped trying to keep pace. They weren't Tintin's cautious pace anymore, they were running, pounding against the carpeting—

A hand gripped Tintin's arm the moment the boy broke into a run. He screamed, jerking his arm away, but Vogel's hand kept his grasp. Tintin didn't know what he was doing; he raised his arm sunk his teeth into the hand. The taste of blood and warm, sweaty flesh was accompanied by a bloodcurdling shriek as Vogel let go, fighting to shake his hand free from Tintin's teeth. Tintin let go. Wildly throwing a punch into the blackness, he stumbled forward, still trying to keep his hand on the wall, spitting blood out of his mouth.

Gunshots echoed through the hallway; he could hear the ricochet as bullets hit marble. Gritting his teeth, he forced his mind away from the gun: he had to get to the kitchen. Otherwise, he was dead.

Somewhere, up ahead, was a tiny flicker of light. It almost hurt. Without thinking, he ran towards it, desperately, trying to reach it—

_Odette?_

His heart stopped.

She was standing there in the hallway, candle in hand; her breath came in clouds, visible in the candlelit. She looked confused and absolutely terrified.

"Tintin?"

He could hear Vogel's footsteps, pounding towards them. He hadn't seen them yet, but in a matter of second, they would be right in his line of fire.

His fingers shook, scrabbling blindly against the wall, when he felt a small bump under his hands. He ran his fingers up and down it, trying to size it up, trying to figure out what it was. Maybe—just maybe—

Odette's light, quick breaths rang in his ear. "What's going on?" she whispered, almost inaudibly. Tintin closed his eyes and tried to concentrate—_Nestor told me—something in the kitchen—_he could see the butler now, in his mind's eye, talking about how when he worked for the Bird Brothers he would transport food to them in their bedrooms without having to use the stairs. _A dumbwaiter!_ That was it! He remembered now. It was designed to look just like any other panel on the wall, but in reality it was a way to _escape._

The dumbwaiter was a double sided contraption, designed to create a pathway not only between floors but between walls. They were on the hallway side now, but maybe they could use it to get to the kitchen—he wouldn't trust the ancient thing to carry them upstairs, but—

Odette was standing directly in front of the dumbwaiter. He began to move before his brain even realised what he was doing.

"Get in here!" he hissed, wrenching the candle from her and slamming it into the carpeting. Ignoring her indignant cries, he grabbed her by the waist, threw open the dumbwaiter, and jumped inside.

Then the small wooden panel closed.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

Tintin and Odette were cramped into the tiny space, backs aching, necks craned uncomfortably low. His hand was clasped tightly over her mouth as he stared at the opening, at the top of the half-open door. Through the dying light of the candle, he could just barely make out Vogel's silhouette as he crept, painfully slowly, past. The light flickered off the handle of his pistol, illuminating the shadows beneath his face. Odette's chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through Tintin's fingers. Her hand gripped at his, holding his fingers with the strength of pure, undiluted panic.

Tintin's blood ran cold when he saw Vogel, stopping right outside the door.

He stood there for a long time, gun in hand.

It was an eternity before he continued walking down the hallway.

Unconsciously, the two of them exhaled, feeling as if strings attached to their body had suddenly snapped. After a moment, Tintin eased his hand away from Odette's mouth, but when she tried to speak, he hushed her immediately. Slowly opening the panel on the other side—the panel leading to the kitchen—he guided her through, following swiftly behind. Their legs touched the tile, and they were lost in the open blackness of the kitchen, hands fumbling for something to hold on to.

"What was that?" Odette whispered, reaching for Tintin's arm and, when she found it, clutching it like she would never let go. "What's going on?"

He didn't answer her question. "Why are you here? What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, reaching forward and grabbing both of her arms. "How is everybody? Is the Captain alright?"

"He's fine! Nothing's—he's fine! You didn't come back, Tintin, I was worried—Tintin, what's happening?"

"Just give me a second…" He didn't let go of Odette as he began to walk through the kitchen, his free hand touching the cabinet doors, feeling for the one he thought would hold what he needed. "It should be somewhere around here…"

"What? What's around here?" Her voice was still a whisper, but gained strength and force as she begged, "Tintin! What's going on?"

"Got it!" he whispered triumphantly, as his fingers clasped over the smooth handle of what he had hoped he'd find: Nestor's revolver. Working for Tintin and the Captain, it hadn't been long before the poor butler had decided he'd need one. Tintin had never dreamed how happy he'd be to see it. "We have a chance now."

"What do you mean?"

He turned back towards her. "Vogel shot Freeh. He's coming after me, now."

"Shot Freeh?" Her hand clenched his arm so hard he winced. "You mean he's dead?"

"Hush! Quiet down! Look, I think so," he whispered back. "I didn't see where he was shot, but Vogel's a good aim."

"I can't believe it…" Her grip weakened, and she took a short step away from him. "He… he can't…"

"He can't what?"

Tintin didn't know if Odette had been about to reply, or wasn't going to say anything at all, but suddenly, from the entrance to the kitchen, came the slow, steady sound of Vogel's footsteps. Coming towards them. Coming closer.

_Tap._

_Tap.  
_

_Tap.  
_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Lol. And you thought I was bad for those last two cliffhangers.

This and chapter 16 were going to be one SUPER long chapter at first, but, after much thought, I decided to split it up. So 16 is mostly written, and I'll be able to update SUPER soon!

I listened to the Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni soundtrack all day before writing this scene. So, hopefully the chapter was good: I'm pretty much disturbed for life now.


	17. Oblivion

Go make yourself a cup of hot chocolate: this is a very long chapter. I was actually going to make this two chapters, but... I'm too nice to leave you with another cliffhanger. Yep, you're welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

"In here," Tintin hissed, opening a cupboard door and helping her inside. The cupboards in Moulinsart were large, but there was barely enough room to close the door. They crouched there, backing up as far against the wall as possible.

Odette's breath was warm on Tintin's neck as he crouched, curled up, fighting to tuck his arms and legs even further back into the tiny, cramped space. His back was bent, his head practically between his knees. He could feel blood gushing, unchecked, from his hurt ear. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins—quite possibly all he was running on right now—but now that he wasn't running anymore, the absolute frigidity of the Hall was beginning to creep into him, soak into his body, almost as dense and suffocating as the dark around them. He was trying hard to keep his breath slow and even, refusing to let his body budge, even an inch, but he still couldn't help but think that they were being too loud. When the slightest noise could give them away…

Vogel's slow, shuffling steps crept their way into the kitchen. Tintin tried looking through the crack between the cupboard doors, but remembered that he couldn't see anything anyway.

But they couldn't just sit here, waiting for the storm to be over, or for electricity to suddenly return to the house. That was just waiting to die. Tintin had done many things in his life. Waiting to die was not one of them.

From beside him, Odette reached out and grabbed his hand. Her gloved fingers dug into his palm. He squeezed her hand with equal strength.

With his free hand, Tintin reached up and felt the drawer above them. Moving slowly, cautiously, dreading to make the slightest sound, he moved his fingers, groping for something, anything that could be useful.

Something scraped at the bottom of the drawer, and he could hear Vogel hesitate. _That man can hear everything!_

Tintin didn't hesitate. His fingers continued to scrabble, desperately searching. There had to be something. He was beginning to panic when his hand closed around the blade of a knife.

Biting his lip, he slowly extracted the knife from the top of the drawer. Vogel was coming closer now. His footsteps were quicker. _Come on, Tintin… faster…_

Taking a deep breath, Tintin let go of Odette's hand, opened the cabinet door, and dug the blade into Vogel's leg.

Vogel howled with pain. Curses spewed from his mouth faster and hotter than the blood from his stabbed thigh. Gritting his teeth with determination, Tintin put both hands on the blade handle and pushed it deeper into the man's leg, and then slowly slicing downward, feeling skin and muscles shred beneath the razor-like edge. Vogel's hands groped for Tintin, pulling his hair, his face, anything to get him away.

Odette shouted something—Tintin couldn't tell what—and dove for Vogel. Her foot caught Tintin in the face, and the knife handle was slick with blood, so he flew backwards, losing his grip on his only weapon.

_Wait! The revolver! Where did I put the revolver?_

He dove for the cupboard; it wasn't long before his fingers closed over the pearl-inlaid handle. Were there enough bullets? There wasn't the time to look; he would have to put it to Vogel's head and find out then.

Odette and Vogel were grappling on the floor; Tintin could hear the sound of their scuffling, and knew he had to stop it.

"Hold him, Odette!" Tintin yelled, running back to where he had left them. When he reached out for Vogel, he found the knife was still implanted in the man's leg. The handle was slippery, but with both hands, he managed to yank it out. "Hang on!"

If only he could see, just tell what was going on…

Something clattered to the floor; he couldn't tell what. From somewhere, Odette whimpered in pain, and then Tintin felt the full weight of her body against his own as she flew backwards, crashing into him. He toppled over; the knife went flying from his hand. He thought for sure Vogel would pick it up and stab them, but instead, he could hear Vogel's step, limping away.

He was retreating.

They lay there for a moment, stunned, panting for breath.

"Snakes," Tintin finally groaned. "He's escaping."

"I'm sorry." Odette's voice was a pained gasp; her entire body was shaking. "He threw me backwards… I didn't…"

"Like it's your fault." He realised, after a moment, that that wasn't the most encouraging thing to say; he should have come up with a less roundabout way of saying he didn't blame her. Coughing into his fist, he slowly curled into a sitting position, and then gripped the countertop, pulling himself up. "Come on, we need to follow him."

Tintin kicked around on the floor until the toe of his shoe tapped against Vogel's gun. Smiling grimly, he shoved in into his pocket and felt around in the kitchen until he found Nestor's torch. Tintin's finger found the _on_ button, and the torch came to life.

Light was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was clear on his face, and on Odette's: darkness left you hungry, craving light. Just like the cold was making them long for warmth. When he saw his reflection in the dusty mirror on the kitchen wall, he jumped. He barely even recognised himself. His grey eyes, rimmed red from exhaustion, stood out in his white, drawn face like blood on snow. His entire face was splattered with crimson, he had a black eye, and part of his ear was torn and shredded. And he looked more gaunt than usual.

"Do we bring the Captain?" asked Odette, her voice breaking into his thoughts.

"No. He's got to stay warm; and it's like the Arctic here." Tintin was one of the few people with the experience to accurately make that assertion. He and the Captain. "He wouldn't last long down here. You have your revolver?" Odette nodded, and he reached down and tapped his hand against the gun in his pocket, feeling the reassuring bulk. It helped him remember that the tables were turned: they were armed, while Vogel had nothing but a bleeding gash in his leg. "Good. Then let's go."

Before leaving the kitchen, Tintin grabbed Nestor's overcoat and threw it on. It took a second of afterthought before he shrugged it off and offered it to Odette.

"Would you like this?" he asked politely.

"Oh. No, no, I don't need that. I wrapped myself up in lots of layers before I came downstairs."

"Okay." He sounded more relieved than he had intended to. "Great, then. Let's head out."

/

Even with the torch, it was still dark. Freakishly dark. The dim yellow beam seemed to only illuminate about a metre ahead; it's light did made the shadows stretch and lengthen, moving, creeping forward and back, as if they had a life of their own.

And somewhere in the silent, black house, was Vogel.

They crept through the hallway, their feet creaking on the wood floors. Tintin kept a hand on the wall, just to keep his bearings. He could feel Odette's presence to his side. _Just keep walking, Tintin. Just keep breathing. _

"Do we have a plan?" whispered Odette.

Tintin's face was grim in the dim light of the torch. "We find Vogel before he finds us."

"Are we going to kill him?" Odette was shaking.

"I don't know," Tintin replied, realising their hopeless situation. It was almost completely up to chance whether or not they found Vogel. He could just as easily find them first, and he could kill them without a gun.

_But as long as we have our guns, we have the upper hand._

The house was utterly silent. They were in the arched doorway to the dining hall now. The room's massive table, chairs and china cabinet were lit momentarily and covered in darkness again as Tintin swung his torch back and forth, slowly, back and forth. It was impossible to see anything more than a few feet in front of them.

"Come on," Tintin whispered, tiptoeing forward. He swung the torch under the table— just to make sure that Vogel wasn't hiding underneath— and crouched down to the floor to get a different view. Then he straightened up again.

And then he heard the faint sounds of careful, haggard breathing from the doorway.

"Odette, run!" Tintin shouted, shoving her backwards as he dashed towards the dining room door. He swung the torch behind him and saw Vogel's face flash in the dim light, his hands, and the knife in them. He must've found one in the kitchen, and it was a butcher knife, made for slicing open cuts of meat—

Bashing his head into Vogel's gut, he twisted the man's wrist and jerked the knife from his grasp. Without thinking, he raised the knife into the air, and sent it straight into Vogel's lower abdomen. His gut split open like the flesh on a grape. He gasped and stumbled forward, but his arm hooked around Tintin's neck, bringing his face downward and onto Vogel's raised knee. Tintin fell backward, his vision going white, and his head cracked against the dining room table. Blood pumped from his nose, mingling with what was still running from his shot ear. From somewhere in the room, he heard the sound of glass shattering. Cold, biting wind flooded into the room, and when he stumbled into a standing position, he saw that the middle window had been smashed through. _No. Vogel hadn't just tried to escape by going outside_. _That's suicide._

Footsteps pounding on the marble, he and Odette made a mad dash for the front door, but couldn't help but hesitate before opening it. _Just do it. _Feeling his hands shake, his breath catching in his throat, pulled on the heavy front door, swinging it wide open. Odette's sweater was still in his hand and, before letting go, used it to push her away from the door.

"Stay in here!" he yelled, trying to close the door on her, but Odette shouted something—he couldn't hear what—and she stumbled out onto Moulinsart's front steps before he could shut it all the way. He guessed he should probably make sure she stayed inside, but he couldn't worry about her.

A blast of frozen, icy air stung their faces, laced with rock-hard chips of snow. It must have been well under zero. They couldn't see a thing; they couldn't even see their own bodies. Tintin's heavy woollen coat was tossed and buffeted by the wind; it cut straight through his clothes and froze his skin. He could already feel his fingers going numb.

Tintin pulled Odette down the marble front steps, and they immediately sunk into thigh-deep snow. It was almost impossible to move forward. The weak light of the torch was so ineffective at cutting through the pelting snow that Tintin simply dropped it and fished out his pistol instead. In the event of a confrontation between him and Vogel, he would need the gun on hand.

They ran blindly through the snow. Tintin's legs completely lost feeling, they were icy logs that he had to drag forward, inch by agonizing inch. He silently prayed for Odette, desperately hoping that she could make it until they got back to Moulinsart, _if they did_, to the captain's room—

_Oh, snakes_, he thought. They might have run out of fuel by then, anyway. What if they made it back to Haddock's bedroom only to find that the fire had died and there was nothing they could do to restart it? What if snow fell through the chimney and put it out forever?

Tintin guessed that they had made it to the parks that were on Moulinsart's property. He remembered the acres of land and ponds, realizing that they could get lost and never find the house again. They wouldn't have any way of knowing where they were. _Just keep running_, Tintin told himself, over and over again. _We'll all be dead within a couple of days, anyway_. The extra time he might gain by finding his way back to the house would be inconsequential: he would either be murdered or freeze to death. Since he was certainly going to die soon, he figured dying with Odette and perhaps killing Vogel first was one of the best ways to do it.

Frozen branches, slick with layers of ice, whipped at their numb faces, but they couldn't stop, they had to keep going. He tried to say something to Odette, something encouraging perhaps, but his lips had turned into blocks of ice. He could feel the frozen air fill his insides; his throat and lungs already felt raw and irritated.

Suddenly he lost his footing and slipped onto a surface that felt like polished stone. "Ice!" he tried to call to Odette, who had also fallen over, but what came out of his mouth sounded more like a panicked scream than anything. Beneath the waist-deep snow, there was frozen water. They must have found one of Moulinsart's ponds, Tintin realized. There were three on the property. One was a small meditation pond, the next was a more moderately sized one, and the third was a very large swan pond. They were all quite beautiful at any other time of year. But certainly not now, when they were either about to freeze to death or be assaulted by a murderer.

He tried to stand up, but his numb joints had locked together and he could barely feel his own body.

"Vogel!" he screamed, but the wind drowned out his voice, and the only thing he could see were the flurries of drifting snow. His feet gained a foothold on a chunk of ice, and he used it to bring himself to a standing position. At this point, he'd rather have Vogel show up than just run forever.

_Where's Odette?_

Staring blindly into the thick snow, the tangible blackness, he could just barely see her form—she was probably a couple metres away, but everything was vague and indistinct, and he wasn't even sure if it was her he was looking at.

"Odette! Odette, where are you?"

"Over here!"

The black figure waved, and he took a step forward. They had to regroup—figure out what to do—

But before he took another step, Vogel's arm reached around him and went over his throat.

"Tintin! Tintin, where are you!"

"Over here!" Vogel gurgled, shoving his head over Tintin's shoulder. His breath was slow and thick; blood drooled down from his lips, trickling over his hand, onto Tintin's neck. "He's over here!"

"Tintin?" She sounded like she was beginning to panic.

"Stay—away—" Tintin tried to choke, but the arm tightened around his throat and he couldn't make any noise above a hoarse whisper. _Please no, _he begged Vogel internally, _please don't kill her…_

The butcher knife came out of Vogel's gut with a sickening, suction-like noise. His breath rapidly quickening, Vogel held the glistening edge to Tintin's throat, forcing a wet chuckle that quickly dissolved into coughs.

Tintin ignored the searing pain in his throat and the wild thudding in his chest. He had to distract Vogel. Buy some time. With knife wounds in his gut and leg, maybe Vogel would just keel over dead.

"Why did you do it?"

But Vogel didn't answer the question. "Serge was dead," he rasped, coughing again. Blood splattered Tintin's entire body. "He was _dead…"_

"Tintin, I'm coming!" Odette screamed, and now she was here, inches away— "_Vogel!"_

"All right!" Vogel shouted, taking a step backwards. "The party's over! Give me my gun and let's end this!"

"Let. Tintin. Go." Odette's voice was steely, and Tintin could see the silhouette of her face, a black outline in the grey night.

"Odette, stay away!" Tintin rasped, but the arm tightened even more.

Vogel swayed slightly, taking a staggering step as he tried to regain his balance. He coughed, and Tintin could feel blood from the man's opened abdomen spurting onto his back with each intake of breath. "Give me my gun!" he gasped again.

Odette shook her head.

"Or I'll cut this boy's throat!"

The blade wandered dangerously near the skin on Tintin's throat. It sawed gently, splitting a hairline cut on his skin. A thin line of blood appeared— it was already freezing onto his neck.

There was only a brief moment of indecision before Odette snapped. "It's in his pocket! It's right there, just don't kill him!"

Vogel's his hands went into Tintin's pockets, searching for the firearm. It wasn't long before, shouting of triumph, he produced it from Tintin's overcoat.

"Take a step and I'll shoot both of you!" he gasped.

"Now, Vogel, you have your gun. You can shoot me and let Odette go." He was surprised at how steady his voice was. "Do whatever you want. Just don't hurt her."

"You can't—" Odette began, but Vogel cut her off.

"You think I want _you?" _Raising the gun into the air, he pointed it at Odette's head, shouting, "Her! It's—"

Vogel's grip momentarily weakened as he gestured towards her, and Tintin jumped on the opportunity. He slammed his elbow into Vogel's chest and, hooking backwards, swept his leg forward.

Crimson splattered the white snow as Vogel hit the ground. Tintin fell along with him, gasping for breath, clutching at his throat. He struggled to tighten his scarf, attempting to stem the flow of blood from the cut on his neck, but before he could move, Odette grabbed his arm.

"Come on!" She had to scream to be heard over the force of the wind. "Hurry!"

Vogel's hand snaked out, catching Tintin's foot. He lashed out, trying to kick Vogel's face, but Vogel managed to move out of the way just in time. There was a ripping sound, and he felt cold wind bite his foot as Vogel ripped off his boot. Tintin struggled to his feet, trying to find a foothold on the ice, but he slipped, his feet going out from beneath him. From behind him, he heard the gun fire. Heart pounding, Tintin craned his neck up, trying to see if Odette had been shot. He couldn't even see her. He could only hope she was still alive.

_She still has Nestor's gun, _he realised.

Roaring, Vogel leapt forward towards Tintin, but he flipped over onto his back and raised his foot, attempting to ward him off, but his boot went straight into the wound on Vogel's abdomen. Vogel stared at him with a look of mute shock, right before Tintin slammed his other foot into Vogel's sternum, sending the man flying backwards.

"Shoot!" he yelled, clawing his way through the snow, struggling to keep his balance on the ice. Gunshots rang out, even louder than the howling wind, as he ran, panting for breath. "Odette! Now!"

There was a burst of fire, and pain ripped through Tintin's body. He wasn't sure what had gotten shot, but it hurt, and for his brain, it was the final straw. His vision flickered. He wanted to stay awake. He needed to stay awake. But everything was going black…

/

"Shoot!" Tintin was shouting. He sounded desperate, and- something Odette didn't expect- terrified.

She tried to listen, to pay attention to him, but her mind was screaming at her, angry and confused words that she couldn't even understand, a whirl of conflicting accusations and threats and hatred. She looked down and realised she was holding the revolver. It was so small and delicate. It seemed wrong that something so fragile could be the end of—

"Odette! Now!"

She held the gun in shivering hands. One of her gloves had been ripped off, and her fingers had lost all feeling—they didn't even hurt anymore, they were just dead. She tried to raise the gun, but she was so stiff…

Vogel's gun fired, and she heard Tintin scream.

"Tintin!"'

But there was no response.

"You bloody swine!" she shouted, feeling her entire body shaking with rage. "I'll shoot you!"

_"Your hands were right there," he said, his voice cold, threatening, but mocking. "He was at the edge of the bridge and you pushed him in—"_

No. No, don't think about that.

"Shoot me," Vogel called, "and the moment the bullet hits me this gun is firing at you, and him."

Not if she shot him in the head. But her fingers were like ice. Apart from a miracle, there was no way she could do that.

_Madame Odette Yvon Davignon, you are convicted of the murder of your husband, Monsieur Serge Davignon. You are sentenced to be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined and from there to a place of execution where you will be put to death by guillotine—_

Vogel shouted, "You killed him!"

_You killed him, _his voice echoed, again and again, over in her mind._ It was the middle of the winter and you pushed him into the river. You watched as he drowned and you didn't do a thing—_

"You killed your husband! He's dead, isn't he? He's dead!" Vogel screamed, raising the gun into the air. "He's gone! What do you have left? Nothing! He's dead!"

_—and thereafter your body buried within the precincts of the prison. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul._

"Not anymore."

The man's voice was quiet, but loud enough that Vogel heard. The man took a staggering step forward, his hand clasped protectively over his abdomen as he tried futile to conceal the glistening, gaping gash on his gut.

"Who is it?" he yelled, staring at the figure approaching. The snow was falling harder and faster, visibility was almost zero, but he got closer and closer—

Odette squinted, taking a cautious step forward, trying to make out his face—

"You're dead!_" _Vogel shrieked, as General Freeh stepped through the whirling snow. "You killed yourself!"

His hat was off; the wig was gone, along with the false beard. The fake wrinkles were still there, but she could see his face.

_Serge, _thought Odette, faintly.

_He's alive._

"You monster," Serge growled, taking a limping step forward.

"You're dead!" Vogel pointed the gun towards Serge, screaming, "You're dead, you're dead, I'll kill you!"

"Odette! Shoot him!"

She was about to reply that she couldn't, but she stopped. Maybe… just maybe…

Pointing the gun downwards, Odette focused at Vogel's feet. Or rather, the ice all around them.

Her finger squeezed the trigger.

Vogel jumped, and the gun dropped from his hand. Blood flew like spittle from his mouth as he shouted curses, reaching down to grab the gun—

_Crrrrack._

Everybody froze.

The revolver slowly dropped from Odette's numb fingers, landing noiselessly in the snow.

With a gut-wrenching moan, a spider web of cracks formed in the ice around Vogel. He screamed, taking a staggering step forward, but tripped over a jagged piece of ice and lost his balance. The impact when he fell was the last straw. The pond groaned, shuddered, and cracked. He fell through. His hands clawed desperately over the water for a moment, then went under.

Odette stood in the whirling snow, her features all but obscured in the dazzling grey. The adrenaline that had carried her for the past hour suddenly drained away, leaving her feeling weak and confused.

"Odette." It was Serge's voice—it was Serge, not General Freeh, it was Serge and he was here and he with her and he was _alive._

"I… I didn't kill you…?" She moistened his lips, finding it suddenly hard to speak. "I… I didn't…"

After a moment, she couldn't even speak. It was all she could do to keep on breathing. It was as if any one word would break this fragile happiness that was threatening to close over her.

"I'm here," he choked, finally breaking the silence. He tried to walk towards her, but his leg was wounded, and it gave way.

The moment he hit the ground, she was there.

His shaking hand went slowly towards her face, but then dropped limply back to his side as his breath caught in his throat. She waited until he was done coughing, and then rest a hand on the back on his head, the other on his shoulder.

"Serge." Her voice was barely audible through her tears, and she had to swallow and try again. "Serge… Serge, where were you? Where were you?" She started crying even harder, but laughed through her tears, choking, "I was so bloody worried about you! You… I thought… I thought you were…I thought I had…" Burying her face in her hands, she started sobbing, her chest and shoulders heaving with each shivering gulp for air. "I was so bloody worried about you…"

His lips moved, trying to form words. He slowly moved his body up until he was half-sitting, but weakness bit at him, and he started to fall.

Instinctively, Odette moved to catch him, wrapping her arms around him and slowly lowering him back down to the ground. Even when was safe, she didn't take her arms away. "Easy now…" she murmured. "Take it easy…"

"How can you ever… ever forgive…" he began, but Odette cut him off.

"No, no…" Her voice was shaking as she held him even closer, slowly rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face. "You're safe, Serge," she choked. "It's okay. We're safe."

/

Tintin's eyes slowly opened.

Snow was drifting around him. Blood was splattered over the white, and it took a moment before he remembered what happened.

He stood, slowly, painfully, and looked over the scene before him. The ice was cracked; a thin trail of blood led to the hole in the ice, and he realised that somebody had fallen through. His heart stopped.

_No. Not Odette._

Staring frantically around, he put his hands to his mouth, meaning to shout for her, when he saw the two figures in the snow.

Odette was kneeling next to Freeh, who was propped against a tree trunk. They were talking, and after a moment, she reached down and took his hand. And pressed it to her lips. There was a moment where neither of them said anything, until Freeh reached up, holding her face in his hand, and Odette leaned down and kissed him.

It was Serge. He knew it was, all of a sudden. He had been here all along.

He watched as they held each other, crying, kissing, rocking gently back and forth. His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to be happy for her. He really did. And he couldn't understand why he didn't.

_Tintin… just go._

He could see Moulinsart's towers peeking out from the branches of the dead trees. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he took a step in the direction of the Hall, taking care to avoid going near the patch of broken ice.

Once he had passed Odette and Serge, he stood there for a long time, at the edge of the grove of trees. His vision was blurring, and blinked rapidly, trying to clear it.

After a long moment, he felt something brush against his arm. He already knew what it was, but it took him a long time before he could turn and look at her.

Her face was flushed red, and snow was caught in her eyelashes and wavy hair. Her brown eyes were shining.

Something twisted inside of him, and a lump rose to his throat. He had to fight to swallow it down.

_Just walk away, _he ordered himself. _Go on home. The Captain needs you. Just leave. Just go._

But he couldn't make himself. He stood there awkwardly, torn. But when Odette wrapped her arm around his own, his resolution melted. His gloved hand slipped quietly into hers, and he could feel each delicate finger, blanketed beneath the warm fabric. He could feel her heartbeat— fragile, but alive. And he suddenly never wanted to let her go.

But this won't be so bad, he thought. Odette is safe. She's happy. And that's all that matters.

"Tintin, look," she said gently. "The storm. It's stopped."

It had; he hadn't noticed until now. The biting wind was gone completely; the only traces left of the raging blizzard were the wisps of snow, drifting like dandelion puffs, softly to the ground from the iron-grey sky.

/

With the end of the storm came the return of light and heat. The sun began to peek through the heavy mantle of clouds, trickling tiny rays of light through the oppressive grey. Nestor had gone outside to chop firewood, and now the cold fireplaces blazed to life. The hall suddenly felt warm and comfortable again. Tintin and Serge's wounds were bandaged, and they all sat in the kitchen and ate toast and coffee, the last of the food; they would be able to get more tomorrow.

For the first time since the day the five guests arrived, they were all able to talk and laugh together, as friends. It was five o'clock in the morning before they finally went to bed. They had their own bedrooms again; they had beds that Nestor had been able to warm for the first time since the storm started.

Odette and Serge were lying next to each other, beneath the heavy sheets. A fire roared and crackled in the fireplace, only feet away, and the sweet, familiar scent of wood smoke drifted through the room.

She laid her head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each steady breath beneath her cheek. It was comforting, somehow. Her face against his cool skin. The heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin, each thump reminding her that he was here with her.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered. Calloused fingers gently smoothed away the hair from her forehead, and she looked up at him, her brown eyes shining.

After a moment, his lips touched hers—gently, as if aware of her fragility.

"I promise," he said, quietly, and his arms enfolded her.

It was the first happy night she had spent in 11 months, 3 weeks, and who cared how many days.

* * *

**Author's note:** The end?

Don't bet on it.


	18. The Accusation

**Chapter Seventeen**

**December 24th**

It was Christmas Eve at Moulinsart. The shops in the village had opened and were selling wares freshly imported from Liege; cuts of turkey appeared in butcher shop windows, tea cookies and waffles were offered again in the patisseries, and new loads of lumber sent smoke wafting lazily in the grey sky.

The Hall hadn't gone unnoticed, either. Although the power hadn't come back on yet, electricians promised it would come to life by Christmas Day, and in the meantime they made do with candles and fires. Sprigs of holly and ribbons were festooned over the doorways, and a giant wreath adorned the tower. Transportation was all but impossible between the village and the hall, but with sleds and a couple teams of malamutes, the grocer managed to haul over sorely needed ingredients like milk, butter, and sugar. In the kitchen Nestor and Odette worked tirelessly to prepare the meals for tomorrow. Jam was brought up for breakfast tomorrow morning, to be eaten with the koffiekoeken, a coffee cake, and cougnou, a sweet bread that was meant symbolise the infant Jesus. Usually Christmas dinner meant chocolate Christmas rolls, vegetables, soups, and a massive stuffed turkey, but they were still low on ingredients, and had to make do with a small, un-stuffed turkey, and only a few side dishes. Nobody minded. They were just glad to smell food.

For what they lacked in food, they made up for in decorations. A magnificent Christmas tree stood resplendent in the parlour, taking up a good fourth of the room. It towered dangerously near the ceiling, and was soon to be topped by a single crystal star. A ladder had been placed near its branches, and Haddock, who was more than ready to join the festivities, had volunteered to hang ornaments from the tree. Tintin had wanted him to stay in bed and get some rest, but finally agreed that it would be okay.

The main rooms of the house were littered with various boxes containing festive junk for the fireplace mantles, end tables and shelves. The china cabinet in the dining room had been opened, and Calculus busily filled it with tiny porcelain houses to assemble the yearly Christmas village.

Snowy, thrilled by the change of atmosphere, ran from one end of the Hall to the other, barking furiously and tugging on pant legs. He understood that something was going on: although he didn't begin to understand the concept of Christmas, he knew that it meant better-than-usual scraps beneath the table. Maybe even bacon.

The excitement was contagious; even Nestor seemed more animated than usual. They were all glad that the storm was over.

Tintin, too, was glad. Or so the Captain thought. But he didn't seem to be showing it. It was odd, Haddock thought; he had a smile that never once wavered throughout the day. But he wasn't talking to anybody, except Snowy, who hardly counted. He seemed completely unmoved by the festivities and decorations. Now he was on the couch, staring at a book he didn't look like he was really reading.

Haddock glanced at the title. For a brief moment he was really confused, trying to figure out what language it was in, and then realised the book was upside-down.

No, Tintin probably wasn't really reading.

Haddock climbed down from the ladder, staring down at the ground below as he cautiously descended. His foot slipped, and he caught himself in time, but watched, in dismay, as his pipe fell from his pocket, cracking on the floor below. _Blistering barnacles! I'm getting too old for this…_

After an effort, he finally landed on the floor, glad to be back on ground. Tintin, naturally, hadn't noticed that the Captain had almost fallen and broken his neck; he was too absorbed in not reading the book.

"Alright, lad?" Haddock asked, sticking his hands in his pockets as he trudged towards Tintin.

Tintin blinked, looking up with a look of mild surprise on his face. "Me?"

"Well, I wasn't talking to Snowy," he scoffed, looking around the room to make his point. Incidentally, Snowy wasn't in the room, but Tintin didn't seem to notice.

"Oh," he just said, staring back down into his book. He frowned, squinting at the words.

"It's upside down," the Captain supplied, gesturing to the book with his broken pipe.

"Ah."

The Captain stood there for a moment. He wasn't really sure what he was supposed to do. He felt as if he should be talking to Tintin, trying to root out what was wrong; at the same time, he knew that when the boy was feeling reticent, getting information out of him was like trying to wrestle a cloud. "Tintin, er, you want to talk?"

"Mmm."

"This isn't about Odette, is it?"

Tintin didn't say anything.

"Tintin, I'm sorry, I was wrong. She's not the murderer. I know that now. And I'm sorry I was rude to you about it." He waited for a response, but when he didn't get one, he continued, hesitantly. "I know that Serge being alive and all kind of threw a spanner in the, er, works, but you knew she was married, Tintin. There's no reason for you to be upset."

"I didn't say I was upset," Tintin replied, articulating clearly.

He snorted. "No: you're not saying anything at all. Look, I just want you to be happy, Tintin! It's Christmas Eve! Vogel's dead! I understand if you're shaken, but don't be like this. And now we know that she's not guilty, she's happy… the case is closed, right?" Haddock fumbled for the right words. "Blistering barnacles, I know that it hasn't been pleasant around here lately, but… it's all over now."

"Yeah."

"So… do you want to… come decorate… or…"

But Tintin shook his head before Haddock could even finish his sentence. "No… there's something I need to go do." Without waiting for a reply, he stood and left the room.

The Captain stood there, watching Tintin go.

_What's got a bee in his bonnet now? _he thought disparagingly, shoving his pipe in his mouth. It took him a moment to remember that the bowl wasn't attached. Grumbling, he replaced it in his pocket. _Ah well. He'll figure it out on his own time._

/

"Two eggs whites, lightly beaten…" Odette read out loud, craning her neck to look at the recipe book. Cracking both eggs on the side of the bowl, she deposited the whites inside and picked up the whisk.

"And what are you doing now?"

She jumped, wheeling around to face the door. Serge was standing there, relaxing against the door frame. He was grinning like an idiot.

"Made you jump, didn't I?"

She pretended to frown, but it was hard for her to hide her smile as she put down the whisk and leaned back against the counter. "Serge, Serge, Serge... it's been a whole year, and you still haven't grown up."

"I tried," he said apologetically. Thumbing the collar of his jacket—he was still in Freeh's heavy military coat—he added, "Look at me. Still dressing up like I'm playacting."

"Oh my." She walked towards him until they were almost touching, keeping her hands clasped tight behind her back. "We can't have that, now, can we?"

He also clasped his hands behind his back, leaning forward towards her. "No; I don't suppose we can. It's a couple sizes too big, anyway."

"That's only because you've lost weight," she said, almost chidingly.

"That does happen when you spend a year starving in the wilderness."

She looked up at him. He was a full foot taller than she was, and there was something stable and comforting about being next to him. His brown eyes met hers, and they never left her face as she reached up, slowly unbuttoning the military jacket. It dropped to the floor unnoticed as Odette put her arms around Serge's neck, standing on her tiptoes, reaching up and softly kissing him.

He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her as tight as he possibly could. It was a long moment before either of them could let go.

"Now," murmured Odette, taking a step back, gently stroking hair away from his face. "Now, we'll find you something to wear."

/

Tintin's hands were shaking as he closed the bedroom door.

He slowly stepped from Vogt's bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

_It's impossible, _he told himself. _It's just a coincidence._

But reporters didn't believe in coincidence. They didn't allow themselves. Tintin never had, and he wasn't going to start now.

"Having trouble, sir?" Nestor asked. The butler was standing at the end of the hallway, a tea tray in his hand; he must've been cleaning out the rooms.

Tintin swallowed hard, feeling a lump passing a hand over his face. "Not at all, Nestor," he managed.

"Very good, sir." But he didn't move. He just stood there.

"Is there something you wanted me for?"

"I… I just thought I should tell you something I saw, sir, if I may be so bold."

_Something he saw? _He frowned, lightly shaking his head. "You mean… here?"

"Quite so, sir." Nestor pulled himself a little straighter. "Two days ago, sir, I happened to see Mister Vogel exiting that room. The one you were just in."

"The morgue?" Tintin paused, his frown deepening. "_This _room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Nestor. That will be all," replied Tintin, troubled.

"Yes, sir."

Nestor's footsteps faded from the hallway. _Why would Vogel be in this room?_ wondered Tintin. _What could he have seen?_

Then it hit him. _Vogel must have accused me of murder because he saw the tattoo on the real Freeh's arm and realized that Freeh was a fake. _

He walked downstairs, slowly, mechanically. _And so he thought Serge was the murderer. _

He reached the first floor. Pine garlands, ornaments and the fresh scent of Christmas trees were all around him, but he didn't notice._ But he didn't want Serge to know he suspected him, so he pretended to suspect me._

Staring down at the files he had collected from Vogt's suitcase, Tintin shuddered. He couldn't help it: he felt absolutely sick.

_There's still time, you know, _he reminded himself. _You can replace these. Act like you never saw it._

But Tintin, ignoring evidence? Like that was ever going to happen.

He wondered if he would have a hard time finding the Captain, but when he entered the parlour, he saw the Captain sitting there immediately. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or sickened with dread.

The man was making an effort to read Tintin's book and obviously having trouble, so Tintin decided it was as good of a time as any to intervene.

"Captain?"

Haddock looked up expectantly.

Tintin forced himself to meet Haddock's gaze, a grim expression on his face. "Captain… could you get everybody together in here? There's something I want to say."

_The awful, twisted murder mystery isn't over yet_, he thought. _Not quite yet._

/

The remaining five people had assembled in the parlour: Tintin, Haddock, Odette, Serge and Calculus.

Odette turned towards Tintin, confused, her eyes full of questions. Her hands were still covered with flour from making the Christmas cake, and she self-consciously wiped them on her dress. "Is something wrong?" she began, tremulously.

Tintin tried to keep his gaze steely. "Yes, Odette. Something is wrong."

_You don't have to do it_, he thought. _You don't have to do it. There's still time. You can just forget all about it._

"Does it have to do with the murders?" asked Serge, beside Odette. "Did you find something?"

_You don't have to do it._

"I found something. You could put it that way." Tintin reached into his pocket and fingered the bottle of Flunitrazepam.

"Thundering typhoons, what are you getting at?" asked the Captain anxiously. "If you know something— if you've uncovered clues, or what have you, then out with it!"

_You don't have to do it._

Tintin took a deep breath.

"Let's begin with this," he said, finally. "We know what everybody did wrong. Freeh shot villagers. Bastian gambled. Hazar was a perjurer. Vogel wrongfully convicted you, Odette, and probably others, of murder. And, of course, you were accused of murdering your husband."

"We all know this," Odette replied, her tone tense.

"Yes, but I never really thought it all through." Tintin's tone was stronger now, more determined. His fingertips rolled the bottle over and over again in his pocket. "I never stopped to think that all of these people's crimes could have been related."

"What do you mean, related?" Haddock asked, when the silence began to stretch uncomfortably. "Tintin, the case is closed! We know that Vogel was guilty! And he's dead, he's dead now, Tintin. There's nothing more to it."

"Vogel was the one who accused you of murdering Serge, Odette," replied Tintin. "I learned that yesterday morning. But what… what if… what if Hazar had been the prosecuting witness? You told me yourself, Odette, that he committed perjury around the same time of year as your trial, and that his lie convicted an innocent person of murder."

"I don't think they're connected," she began, but he cut her off.

"And what if Bastian had gambled away _your _money? And what if General Freeh had stormed through Bocholt, killing villagers, the same night that your mother sang _Silent Night _to you, Odette? The same night that she and your father died?"

The silence that ensued was suffocating.

Tintin's fingers were shaking, and it took half a minute of fumbling around in his pocket before he finally brought out the bottle of Flunitrazepam.

Calculus started in his chair, leaning closer to look at the bottle. "Young man," he began, "that is a highly dangerous—"

"Exactly," Tintin interrupted. His eyes remained fixed on Odette's face. "You told me that you and Hazar had been discussing a plan for finding out if Vogel was guilty. But what if that plan was for Hazar to scream and fake his death, when Odette and I were together and Vogel and Freeh were out of the way? She and I would run upstairs and find Hazar's body. And I would immediately believe that you, Odette, were not guilty, because you were here with me when Hazar was killed!"

He stopped, fumbling furiously with the bottle. "But it didn't go according to plan, at least not for Hazar, because when I left for help, she jabbed him with this so he couldn't move—" again, he lifted the bottle of poison— "and then stabbed him for real."

Haddock burst out laughing. "Tintin! You're not actually…" But it quickly died away.

"I checked Hazar's arm." He swallowed. "There was a prick. From a needle."

Serge suggested, "Well— well, maybe he was on drugs."

"Yes." He dipped his head into a nod. "Yes, that's what I want to believe."

"So you're accusing me," Odette said quietly. "You're accusing me of four murders."

"Get out of detective mode, Tintin," the Captain said warningly. "Wake up. The case is closed."

"Maybe it's not," he replied, his voice strained. He tried to catch Odette's eye, but she looked away.

"Tintin, why would Odette tie me up and leave me outside to die?" the Captain was saying. "Why would she try to kill me? And it was a man who did it anyway. She couldn't throw a punch like that."

"That could have been Hazar; you could tell that he was terrified we would accuse him of murdering Vogt, and wanted us both out of the way. And his terror was what led him to agree to pretend to die, so that Odette—"

"Look here," Serge broke in, his face beginning to darken with anger, "she _could've _killed Hazar—you've made that quite clear—but she _didn't! _We already know that was Vogel! And you can stop accusing my wife!"

"Wait, no," the Captain interrupted. "Back to Hazar. Did he murder Vogt?"

"No." Ducking his head, Tintin swallowed, trying to get rid of the knot of unease that was forming in his throat. His whole body was trembling, but he forced himself to stay calm, and look straight at Serge. "No, Serge," he replied steadily. "I'm afraid that was you."

* * *

**Author's Note: **No: it isn't over. You knew it wouldn't be over. And I'm afraid there's still quite a bit coming, too...

"But what's the backstory? How does this all fit together? WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO?"

Tell me what you think. And what you thought.


	19. Doing What's Right

**Chapter Eighteen**

"You—what—I—I bloody well didn't!" Serge was shouting, his face turning bright red with anger. "That's ridiculous! I came here to protect my wife, and that's bloody all!"

"Calm yourself," he said coldly. "Now, all right." Standing as tall as he possibly could—which wasn't much, but was threatening all the same—Tintin cleared his throat. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

Haddock gave Tintin a Look, but managed to keep his mouth quiet. He was confused, not to mention downright aggravated, but was too curious about what his young friend had uncovered to interrupt.

"About a year—no, a year and a half ago, Serge's father died," Tintin began calmly. "She and Serge inherited his entire estate— an incredible amount of money. Naturally, they entrusted this to their banker, a friend of theirs from Britain, by the name of Vogt."

Haddock said, "And you know this because…?"

"Half because of things Odette told me, and half because of Bastian Vogt's diary. It was in his suitcase. You can go upstairs and double check if you want; I'm not making this up." Nobody made a move to go upstairs, so he resumed talking. "Monsieur Vogt was an incompetent banker, but his son was even more incompetent. Sebastian Vogt was a professional failure at gambling, and he lost an incredible amount of money to an acquaintance of his, General Gunther Freeh. I even have the I.O.U. with me. Anyone want to see it?"

The room was deathly quiet.

"Fine by me." Tintin pulled out the small slip of paper. "Here's the proof right here." He laid it on a nearby end table and continued. "Anyway, his family agreed to pay Freeh back using the money entrusted to Bastian's father, which amounted to almost the entire Davignon estate. Somehow, Vogt ended up as Freeh's chauffeur— perhaps as a way of paying off more debts—but that's not important. So, infuriated by the misuse of their money, the Davignons had their lawyer, a man by the name of Norman P. Vogel, file a case against the Vogt family for this crime. While investigating the case, Vogel stumbled upon some… family secrets."

"Family secrets!" Serge spluttered. "We haven't committed a crime in our lives!"

"Look, Serge, I don't know—"

"Tintin, wait," Odette interrupted. She turned towards Tintin, biting her lip. "His… Serge's father was a traitor in the War."

Serge looked like he wanted to object, but just sighed, setting his face into an angry glare, and said nothing.

Tintin nodded to Odette. "Thank you. So, Serge and Odette were being blackmailed for their father's crimes. Furthermore, while Vogel was investigating Freeh's side of the matter, Vogel discovered that the General had also committed crimes in the war: butchering innocent Belgians after they had already surrendered, and also razing entire villages to the ground. Including a town near Germany, called Bocholt."

Odette's eyes filled with pain at the mere mentioning. "It's true," she whispered.

"Vogel decided he could use these secrets to his advantage and make money by blackmailing both the Davignon family and General Freeh. Around Christmas last year, he won the Davignon case. Serge and Odette got their money back. It was all good, wasn't it?" Tintin looked around the room, looking at each of their expressions. "But not for Serge. Serge wanted Vogel gone. So he came up with an idea. He would fake his own death, so that Vogel would stop blackmailing him, and so that he could come back later and kill the man. But when Serge 'died', Odette went on trial."

"Hold on a moment," cut in Haddock. "I'm trying to understand what's going on here. Why was Odette on trial?"

Tintin looked at Odette for an explanation.

"When Serge jumped off the bridge," she began, faintly, "I was standing there trying to stop him. I didn't know that he was only pretending— he didn't want me to know. My hands were right there— on his coat— if anybody saw, they would have thought…"

"They would have thought Odette was guilty," finished Tintin. "So she went on trial. Not only that, but when Vogel heard about the trial, he hired a man to witness against her. Which, as we know, was Hazar, whom Vogel later blackmailed for perjury. Odette was convicted, and shipped off to be executed. I don't know where Serge was all this time, but while Odette was being transferred to Berlin, he saw an opportunity to kill Vogel, and free his wife at the same time.

"This is where Moulinsart comes in. Serge wrote an anonymous letter to Vogel, asking for a meeting with all the people involved. General Freeh, his 'chauffeur' Vogt, Hazar, and Odette. The Captain and I had nothing to do with it: Moulinsart was simply the village where Odette's train would stop on the way to Berlin.

"But something came up that nobody could have planned: the blizzard. And it just happened to be the strongest blizzard Belgium has ever seen. All transport was cut off, and so Serge, masquerading as Freeh, was able to offer her a 'lift to Berlin' and rescue her that way, instead of abducting her as he had originally intended."

"But where was the real Freeh?" Haddock asked.

"Oh, forgive me. I forgot about that part. Vogt was so desperate to be rid of Freeh, that he tricked the general into coming to Moulinsart the day before for a 'look-around'. He popped one of the car's tires and pushed it to the house's front gate, then shot Freeh somewhere else on the grounds. At first it seemed as if the shot had only been the sound of the car's tires popping. Clever, right? Serge happened to be there at the same time, saw what happened, took Freeh's clothes, and Bob's your uncle."

"But- but- blistering barnacles, Vogt must've known that 'Freeh' was a fake," the Captain pointed out.

"Not necessarily. Vogt probably assumed he had failed to kill the general, and Freeh was simply postponing punishment until after the meeting with the blackmailer. Besides, he grew up right next to Germany, so he spoke fluent German, and was a good actor…" He glanced at Odette.

"He could play the perfect old man," finished Odette, nodding.

"He was very convincing. And, I think you can guess the rest of the story. They all ended up at Moulinsart Hall because of the storm, where Serge killed Vogt in a very fitting way: he literally had the man gambling for his life. Later, Serge somehow alerted Odette that he was still alive, and after that point, she began working with him to kill Hazar."

Haddock began, hollowly, "Why would they want to kill…"

"They wanted to kill Hazar because he had presented false evidence. He had lied, and it was about to result in Odette's death. So, very fittingly, Odette lied to Hazar, which resulted in Hazar's death. She told him that he would only pretend to be dead, but instead she paralysed and then stabbed him."

"She did no such thing!" exclaimed Serge, holding Odette closer.

"Yes she did, and you know it! Your wife is responsible for Hazar's murder!" he shouted, rising from his chair. He paced back and forth on the rug. "And you! You were so clever! Where there were only two suspects left, you shot yourself, so I would immediately think Vogel was the murderer and give chase and kill an innocent man!"

"We didn't lie!" Serge roared.

"You did! And don't lie to me again. You killed them," Tintin said. His tone had once again become calm, matter-of-fact, but then he repeated the words again, and his voice gained strength, until it was almost a scream— "You killed them. You forced Sebastian Vogt into suicide. You persuaded your innocent wife to poison and stab Hazar Schuuring. And then you two tricked me into helping you murder Norman Vogel. You killed them all! Every bloody one of them. You _killed _them!"

"We did what was right." Odette straightened up in her chair, looking Tintin in the eye. "We did nothing wrong."

"I gored an innocent man!" he almost shrieked, flying to his feet. "I _gored _an innocent person!"

"And this is all about you!" Serge suddenly shouted, gesturing wildly with his arm.

Hands clenching into fists, Tintin wheeled towards Serge, pinning him with an infuriated glare. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Tintin, that you can't understand what it's like to want to kill somebody so much you're willing to risk your life— to jump into a freezing river—to put your own wife in danger. I'm sorry that the law has never worked against you, and that you've never had to stand by and watch justice be skewed, and polluted, and be able to do _nothing! _You see the world so naïvely, don't you? You think that the law fixes everything. Maybe law and justice go hand in hand in your reality, but everyone else has to stand by and watch as the law crushes them, and tears them apart, and—"

"You do _not _kill innocents!" Tintin repeated, gritting his teeth.

"You're not even listening! And you know— and do you know what's sad? You care more about the fact that you wounded who you think was an innocent man, than the fact that my wife and I are going to hang for it!" he yelled, jabbing his finger into the air for emphasis.

A sick feeling had been coiling up inside of Tintin's gut the entire time Serge was speaking, and suddenly, it became too much. He couldn't hear another word. "Get out," he said quietly.

"Tintin…" Haddock started, but his voice trailed off. He had nothing to say.

"We _were_ the innocents," Serge continued hotly. "We didn't have blood on our hands until Vogel forced it on us. And we did what was right, because it was right, and we risked more than you ever, ever have. Your adventures… you overthrew Tapioca, for what? So another dictator could rule the country? You don't care about what's right!"

"I said. Get. Out." His voice caught, and he suddenly wheeled around so that he was looking out the window, trying to hide the tears stinging his eyes. His voice was slow and controlled, forcing away the shake as he ordered, "Haddock, show them to their rooms."

"You… you bloody…"

Serge's chair scraped against the ground and fell over backwards as the man leapt to his feet. Tintin flew around just in time to see a revolver in Serge's hand, pointed at Tintin's heart. Time seemed to slow. Eyes widening, Tintin raised an arm protectively, but before Serge could fire, Odette stopped him.

"No!" she screamed, leaping at his arm, her voice desperate, frantic. "No, Serge!"

The revolver went off as it fell from his hand, the bullet hitting the chandelier. Crystal splintered, dropping to the ground, chiming lightly as it shattered apart. Serge stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, and then his knees hit the floor. He knelt there, his eyes staring vacantly forward, his face desolate.

"Darling… no, darling…" Odette whispered, kneeling next to him, gently stroking his hair back from his face. "We aren't murderers, darling. We do what's right… we aren't murderers…" Her lips went against his forehead, and she wrapped her arms protectively around him, breathing heavily.

After a moment, Serge and Odette stood, and Tintin turned back around to face them. Odette turned and looked at Tintin for a long moment. Her expression was hard to read. It wasn't one you could define in a moment. "It's only what I deserve," she finally said, her voice a barely audible whisper. Then she looked away.

_I didn't have to do it_, he thought.

Serge put his arm around his wife and led her out of the room. Odette had been silent the whole time, but now her voice dissolved into muffled sobs. Serge's voice murmured in the marble room, hushing her. "It's okay, Odette… it's okay… darling, it's okay…"

Calculus began muttering something about checking on the lab and went outside. The doors closed. Everybody was gone. And Tintin was left alone.

He stared at the door for a long time, and then slowly sat down on the chair, taking a long shuddering breath. His head fell into his hands. _I didn't have to do it._

_God forgive me_.

_I didn't have to do it._

/

The tea tray was balanced precariously in Tintin's hands as he knocked on Odette's bedroom door. Part of him didn't want her to open. He didn't want to see her face again.

_I'll just give her the tea, and go, _he told himself. But when the handle turned, and she was standing there, his resolution crumbled.

"I… I brought you some tea," he said weakly, proffering the tray.

She stared at it for a moment. "Oh. Thank you."

For a long time, they didn't have anything to say. Then, finally, Tintin choked, "You didn't have to kill him."

Her gaze wandered to the floor. "I know." Shaking her head, she opened the door wider. "Come in. I think we could both use some tea."

/

The two of them were both sitting on the floor, the tea tray between them. For a brief moment, Tintin could imagine that it was December 22nd: that they were in his room, and Odette was wearing her grey dress, and Snowy was sleeping on Tintin's lap, and it was cold and there was a storm but it didn't matter because they had a fire and tea and they were warm anyway.

But no amount of imagination could give back to him what he had felt then.

"Are you going to turn us in?" Odette finally asked, pouring cream into her tea, not looking Tintin in the eye.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled, shaking his head. "I don't know," he admitted, shrugging hopelessly. "I just… I just don't know, okay? I don't know."

"Serge doesn't know you," she said, softly. "He didn't know what he was saying."

"No." Swallowing hard, he stared into his cup of tea, unable to meet her gaze. "No, he was right."

"He was wrong. I know you're not afraid to do the right thing." She took a sip of tea, and then set the cup down on the floor. "Making the right choice will hurt you more than it hurts me."

His head shot up, an angry frown flitting over his features. "Are you telling me to let you go?"

She shook her head, but didn't reply. After a moment, she leaned back against the foot of the bed, sighing. "What are you going to do? After all this is over?"

"What I've always done." Standing, Tintin crossed over to the window, hands crossed behind his back. His gaze drifted over the Hall's yard; the oaks, the rose garden, the hedges, all dressed in white and sparkling like diamonds with the light from the sun. "Go on adventures. Fight criminals. Make friends that I'll never see again. It's how life goes. You're lucky, you know," he added, abruptly. "I mean. You were. I guess…"

"I still am lucky. We're together. That's all I wanted." There was a long silence. "You forgot my Christmas Eve present."

He frowned, turning to look at her.

"Your name," she reminded him.

"Oh." He ducked his head, biting his lip, but grinning. "I almost forgot. No, the Captain doesn't know my real name."

"He doesn't?" she asked, confused. "You never told him?"

"Believe it or not, I haven't. But tomorrow, I'll tell both of you. And you have to sing Silent Night for me."

Odette didn't say anything, and Tintin remembered: tomorrow, they would be taking her and Serge to the police station. They would be leading them away to be executed. He felt sick, and something inside twisted, raw and painful.

"I'm… I'm sorry. I forgot…"

"No, it's okay."

He sat down next to her. For a while, he didn't say anything, trying to hold his emotions back, but it wasn't long before his head fell into his hands. "Odette…" He took a long, shuddering breath. "I wish I'd never even given it another thought. I wish…"

"You did the right thing. Even though you didn't want to. Don't tell yourself anything different."

He stared glumly at the cup of tea sitting beside him. "I wish there was some way… some way I could obey the law… and keep you alive…"

"No, Tintin," she murmured. She turned towards Tintin, resting her hands on his shoulder, and placed a finger beneath his chin, gently tipping his face up to look at her. "Please. Don't even try."

"I… I don't want this to happen." Tintin reached up, feeling for her hand, and enclosed it in his. It was now, he thought. He could tell her now. He could just have it out, and never say it again. But he couldn't. He could feel his heart beating, pounding with what he wanted to say. And it was something that he knew he wouldn't ever—couldn't ever—tell her.

After a moment, let his hand drop, turning his face away.

"Tintin?" she asked, softly, but he just shook his head.

"I need to talk to your husband," he said quietly. His voice and expression were hollow, and he didn't even look at her as he turned his back, walked out of the room, and closed the door softly behind him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_I_ love you, Tintin! *sob*

*deep, shuddering breath* Okay... I'm okay. Fangirl moment over.

As always, I love reviews. Your input is wanted more and more as the end comes nearer. If you would let me know what you think, I would really, really love that. :)


	20. The End of Our Lives

**Chapter Nineteen**

When Tintin entered Serge's room, for a moment, he didn't even see him. It wasn't until he heard the man's heavy sigh that he noticed him there, sitting at the edge of his bed, a cigarette balanced between his fingertips.

"You're here," Serge said quietly, before the silence got too long.

Tintin didn't respond.

"Do you want a confession?"

"I don't need one," Tintin said simply.

Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Serge shook his head. "No," he replied. "It wouldn't do you much good." The silence began to stretch again, until he added, "But there's one thing you never figured out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You never figured out where I've been for the past year." Running his hand through his hair, Serge sighed again, stood up, and fell into an arm chair next to the window. "I went to Russia and got caught up in some idiot's coup d'état." He grimaced, tossing the cigarette to the floor. "I meant to come back to Belgium sooner, but I was trapped there. I marched around in that forsaken wilderness for months, little to no food, just marching, day after day. When I deserted, they actually hanged me. But I survived, somehow. I guess I made myself. I just... decided I wouldn't die. And I guess God didn't want me to die yet, because: here I am." After a long pause, he added, sullenly, "Not like it matters. They shoud've just done it. Saved you the trouble."

"You were in Russia? And that was why Vogel was going there?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. It's possible. I don't think he suspected I was alive until when he started accusing you of murder. It was so random. I guessed he had learned something that made him think I was alive, and he was trying to make sure I didn't think he suspected me. He knew I had every reason in the world to kill him."

"Oui; I'd thought of that."

"You've thought of everything," Serge muttered.

They sat there together, neither saying anything, neither able to look each other in the eye. Finally, Serge murmured, "I did everything for her. Surely you can understand that."

"Your feelings can't justify murder."

"I didn't say that they could," he replied, his voice strained. "I wasn't doing it just because I was mad at them, Tintin. I was mad, but don't let that distract you from the fact that they deserved to die. They had all committed criminal offenses, and it was only because of Vogel's twisted blackmailing that they weren't in prison."

Tintin studied Serge's face. Despite the lines on his forehead, which were probably an evidence of stress rather than age, he had a friendly, boyish, and admittedly innocent looking face. Not the face of a killer. So was his face misleading? Or were his actions?

"So that makes you—what, a vigilante?" he asked quietly. "That's not a whole lot better. You have good ideals, but they don't justify your actions."

Serge groaned. "People might say the same about you, Tintin. Tintin, please. Let us go. Let us go for her."

That was a cruel card to play, and they both knew it. "If you think this will be an easy choice, you're an idiot," Tintin mumbled, staring at the ground.

"Do you think murdering Vogel was an easy choice? Do you think planning four murders was easy? My hands were clean." He raised his hands into the air, palms up, as if it would prove his point. "It wasn't just some vendetta. I was serving justice."

"You leave justice to the law!"

"But I couldn't! I couldn't tell the law what Vogel did! He was _blackmailing _us."

"Then you should have just told everybody what your father did."

"My father was the only thing keeping Belgium together after the war. Imagine if Vogel told everybody he had tried to betray his own country! We'd still be an anarchy. And Odette and I would have been hated, banished, and most likely murdered." The lines on his forehead deepened. "I couldn't leave justice to the law. And justice _must be upheld. _You should know better than anybody: if justice is withheld from one, soon, justice is withheld from everybody. Tintin, believe me when I say, I was doing what was right!"

"What was right? How were you upholding justice? You planned the systematic murder of four men!"

"Do you want to know why I killed Vogel? Do you want to know what he did? He spent months making advances on Odette, Tintin, and when he realised she wouldn't have him, he kidnapped her. He tied her spread eagle to a bed and raped her for three bloody days. Gave her nothing to eat, to drink, nothing. I didn't even know where she was. Not like it mattered, because I couldn't lift a finger, a _finger, _to stop him. And do you want to know how I got her back? I found her lying naked on the street, dying. Try and tell me that you wouldn't kill over that. And when I faked my death, so I could deal with him later, he took my wife and accused her of murder, then threw her into a cell, beat her, tattooed her—" His voice broke off jaggedly, and he dragged a hand over his face, trying to regain his calm.

Tintin was at a loss for words.

When Serge continued talking, his voice was quiet and broken. "I waited a year to have her back." He bit his lip, taking in a shaking breath. "A year. A whole… a whole bloody…"

But his voice cracked and broke off, and he couldn't continue. Sinking down into the chair, he turned his head away, trying to hide the tears flooding his eyes. Resting his elbows on the desk, his head fell into his hands, and his shoulders began shaking with sobs.

"You're taking her from me," he sobbed. "You're taking her…"

"Serge… I…" He swallowed, trying to steady his voice, but his words came jaggedly. "I don't want to—"

"You're going to kill her. You're going to _kill_ her."

"I'll take you to her," Tintin said quietly, turning his back to Serge.

He lifted his head, staring at Tintin with red-rimmed eyes. He choked, "You'll…"

"I said you can go to her."

Serge looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded. "Okay," he said, quietly. "Please. Take me to her."

/

When Tintin returned to his room and reached up to turn on the lights, he felt like he had weights attached to his arms. Every movement was heavy and painful, consuming more energy than he seemed to have in his entire body. He had to stand there for a moment, not looking at anything, trying to regain the will to move, onto the couch, his bed, anywhere.

His whole body seemed to ache, as if the wear and tear on his body the all his adventures had seen was finally catching up with him. He felt old— tired and old, the last spark inside of him finally snuffed out.

He limped to his bed and sat at the edge of the mattress for a long time, thinking.

There was still time. He knew that. He could pretend to forget. When they went to the village tomorrow, he could still tell the police that Vogel had been the murderer, and then give the bodies back to the families, and that would be the end of it. He knew his word was gospel in courts of law; no questions would be asked.

But was it right?

Did you follow your conscience, even when your conscience wasn't following the law?

He wanted to believe that the answer to that question was yes. But that was what Serge had done, and Serge had killed three people because of it.

But were their deaths even wrong?

If he could, beyond a reasonable doubt, justify Serge's actions, then lying to the police would be justifiable, too.

Frowning, he rested his hand on his forehead, feeling the lines gathered beneath his fingertips. Why did it have to matter? There were hundreds of murders every day so how could it possibly matter? He could let Odette and Serge go. Nobody would ever have to know what they'd done. And they'd already been through so much. They had received their punishment anyway, right?

Finally, he stood, and made his way to his dresser. He remembered the last time he had done this. It was after Vogt had died. He had been so shaken then, but he almost wished he could go back. To a time when every heartbeat hadn't been raw and excruciating, doing nothing but pulse new pain through his aching body. To a time when every thought wasn't tortured, consumed with the question of whether or not he should kill one of the dearest friends he had ever had.

_God help me, _he thought, staring down at the rosary, nestled in the top drawer. _God help me._

His gaze drifted to the whisky. It was still there. He could do it, he thought. He could kill his mind. Deaden his pain. The whisky could numb his emotions; it could make everything feel okay. It could drown his brain and smother everything wrong with life. And that was what he wanted: to drown. To be dead to all of this.

Suddenly, more than anything, Tintin wanted nothing but a world where he had never met Odette. Where today would be Christmas Eve and he would be drinking cider and singing carols and not have his heart aching and his entire being throbbing. The storm would be over, the hearth roaring, and he would be glad to be here, with the Captain, with Calculus, with his friends. To be content with adventures, with travelling the world and fighting criminals. He wanted to be happy, and to never, ever have known that out there, there was a girl, on a train, going to a prison in Berlin, about to die for a crime she never committed.

_Why couldn't it have been that way? Why did she have to come?_

It was unfair of him to think it, but it was unfair of him to make him chose whether or not she would die for what she'd done. _Why did she do it?_ he thought, desperately. His fingers brushed the lid of the bottle of whisky. _Why didn't she let Serge kill Hazar? Why did she make me have to choose to kill her?_

He didn't want to. He didn't want to. But now she was going to die, and it was going to be all his fault, she was going to _die—_

Rage and pain rushed through him, like jagged saws running down his body, and almost screaming, he raised the bottle by its neck, lifted it above his head and flung it forward with all of his might. Before it had even touched the wall opposite, he was on the ground, curling into a ball, sobbing wretchedly.

"No," he choked, his entire body shaking. "I can't do it… I can't do it…"

/

The bedroom door opened, and Serge stepped inside.

Odette was standing there. There was only a heartbeat of hesitation, and then she fell into his arms.

"Shh," he said, quietly hushing her, stroking her hair. "It's okay. Shh."

"They're going to kill us," she sobbed.

"I know… I know…" Reaching towards her face, he wiped away a tear with his thumb, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. "It's going to be okay."

Forcing back her tears, she closed her eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. "We'll go away from here, Serge," she said, quietly. "We'll escape. We'll find a way. We'll find somewhere… somewhere where people won't… won't hurt us…"

"Odette, no, you… " He also closed his eyes, resting his chin on her shoulder, holding her shoulders in his hands. "Please, don't."

"Serge … Serge, we can't die. We just… you just… just found…" Her lips started to tremble, and she put her head against his chest, holding his as tightly as she could. "There has to be a way. There has to… there has to."

"I should've… we should have done it so differently." He shook his head. "Every moment I saw your face, all I wanted to do was rip off my stupid beard and run to you. But I didn't. And I should've. Vogel didn't matter, Odette, I just should have…"

"We still can," she protested weakly, but she knew it was pointless, and tears began trickling from beneath her closed lashes even as she said it. "We still can."

"They can't take you away," he said, almost fiercely. "I won't let them."

"It should have been so different." She opened her eyes again, and for a moment, her desperation turned into a look of brief anger, flashing in her brown eyes. "You said that we would spend our lives together. You promised."

"Odette." He reached out, trying to pull her closer, but she resisted. "Odette, please."

"The rest of our lives. You promised…"

"And we will. We will!" His fingers were shaking reached up, taking her hand and pressing it against her lips. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to fight the tears, but they came anyway. "Whatever we have left," he said, the calmness in his voice barely masking the trembling behind it. "Whatever… whatever we have left. Okay? Odette? W—whatever we have left."

"We don't have anything. We're out of time, we have nothing. Serge, I don't want you to leave again." Her breath caught in her throat, and all anger and desperation were flooded away in a new wave of sobs. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't go."

"I won't. I promise you. I promise you, Odette." He reached forward, gripping her arm with a kind of desperate urgency that showed in his eyes. "I promise. I'm not leaving you again."

"Serge, I'm scared."

"Don't be." His arms went around her waist, holding her closer. "I'm not going to leave."

Her face was pressed against his shirt, and voice was muffled. "I would die if you left again."

_"For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,"_ he said softly. _"And never from this palace of dim night depart again."_

A timid smile crept to her lips. "Romeo and Juliet," she choked. "That was our first play."

There was a long, tangible silence.

"Serge… you…"

He swallowed hard, reaching forward and taking her hand. "Odette."

/

Tintin rested his back against the wall, his tear-streaked face upturned, his knees curled up into his chest.

It wasn't fair, he thought. It just wasn't fair.

/

_"Here will I remain. Here will I set up my everlasting rest, and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh."_

She held him close, feeling his heart beating against her chest. A trembling smile rose to her face.

/

Tintin stood, pacing back and forth over the room.

He couldn't let her die.

He couldn't. It wasn't right.

/

_"Eyes, look your last; arms, take your last embrace."_

There was only a moment of hesitation before she slipped it around her neck.

/

Tintin opened the bedroom door. He paused for a moment, and then began walking down the hallway, towards the direction of Odette's room. But he stopped himself.

Not yet, he told himself.

/

Odette whispered, _"Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark…" _But she couldn't continue.

His hand reached out and found hers. "I'm not going to leave you, I swear. No matter what."

"No matter what," she repeated softly. She was still crying, but she found she wasn't scared. Her heart beat softly, calmly. There was nothing to be afraid of, she realised. For the first time in a year, she was safe.

He whispered, "Until the end of our lives."

"The very end," she choked. Her eyes were glistening with tears, and she didn't try to hold them back. "I love you, Serge. I love you."

"I love you."

They stood there for a long moment, an eternity, holding each other's gazes, clutching each other's hands as hard as they could. And then Odette nodded. They took a deep breath, and kicked out the chair out from underneath them.

/

Time passed by, slow and steady, like the beat of a heart. Tintin stood at his bedroom door, staring at the wall opposite.

He didn't know what he was going to do, or say, but he knew he couldn't take it any longer. He had to see them.

His fingers paused over the knob to Odette's bedroom door. It was silent inside. He could be trespassing.

_Just go in._

The door creaked loudly as it swung slowly open. He walked into the room, treading the carpeting quietly, each step slow and hesitant.

When he saw her, his heart died.

In the centre of the room. There they were. Slowly drifting. Back and forth. Side to side.

"No," he whispered. He could feel his voice shaking with just the one word. "No."

Her face stared vacantly past Tintin, her wide open eyes looking at something that he couldn't see. Beneath her and Serge was a chair, kicked over. Around her neck was a rope.

Tintin's knees buckled.

He staggered forward, his heartbeat loud and heavy, and grasped for her limp hand, trying to feel for a pulse. There was none. He knew there wouldn't be. When he pressed her hand to his lips, he could feel that it was already cold.

His chest heaving, Tintin dragged the chair into an upright position and stood on it, taking out his pocketknife and sawing through the rope. He kept one arm tight around her, and when the rope broke, she was still in his arms as he descended the stool and gently eased her to the ground.

Tintin held her. He held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth.

"Silent night…" He began shakily, his voice tight and shaking. "Holy night. All is calm, all is bright."

Her empty brown eyes gazed up, past him, past the ceiling.

"Round yon virgin," he choked, "mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly…" But Tintin's breath caught in his throat, and his voice was becoming so strangled with tears that he could barely continue.

He couldn't force the words out, and without meaning to, he choked, "No, God, please, no. No." Resting his forehead against the side of her face, he doubled over, his body racked in sobbing so hard he was clutching his stomach in pain, barely able to get the sounds out. "No… not her, please… no… Odette..."

There was no use.

She was gone.


	21. Everything She Had

**Chapter Twenty**

**December 25****th**

_Every murderer has a tragic flaw._

_Yours was that you were kind to me._

"Alright, lad?" the Captain asked. He looked over at Tintin worriedly, from where he was in the driver's seat.

Tintin didn't respond. Closing his eyes, he sunk as far back as he could into the leather seat, as if he could somehow hide from the Captain-from the world-if he just curled into himself enough.

"Alright," Haddock said, to himself, more than anything.

_And I'm sorry because of it._

_So, so sorry._

Tintin's eyes were fixed on the window, but were glazed. It was as though he was blind; he couldn't see the scenery outside, blanketed in the pale light of early morning, rolling by as the car drove down the snow-covered road. The effort it took to ignore what was lying, stiff and cold in the back seat, was laborious. He tried to force his mind away, but the knowledge kept on returning, quietly, painfully.

He knew he would never know if he had done the right thing. There was so many things that he could have done, paths that he could have taken, and he didn't. He had done what he always did: followed his reporter instincts, obeyed the law to the best of his ability, and made sure to choose the choice that was the most right—or, in this situation, the least wrong. And he would have to live his entire life telling himself that he had been correct in doing so. In all his years of journalism and adventuring, he'd done the right thing and never looked back. He wouldn't start now. He couldn't.

The sun was just beginning to rise. Pale pink, against the dark of the sky. Bringing life to the world.

But she was dead.

Time passed. Seconds rolled onward, long and slow, but he hardly felt them. His head dipped and fell forward a little into his hand, his grey eyes staring vacantly out at the direction of the outside.

He wanted her to be breathing.

Pale morning light dripped, raw and cold, down the black trees. It trickled through the half-frozen creeks, over the blankets of snow. The car rumbled and jolted over the bumpy dirt road, beneath the heavy grey sky, dark with only a faint hint of soft red, like a brush had done one quick stroke over the interminable grey, watercolour over the thick darkness.

He wanted her to be with him.

The buildings of the village came into the distance, their black outlines slowly becoming clearer and clearer beneath the receding darkness. The Captain pulled onto the main road, and they entered the village. They rolled over the uneven cobblestone road, past the houses swathed in snow. It was still dark. There was no light from the houses, only feeble light from the sky.

After a moment, the Captain pulled into the lot outside the police station, and opened his door. Tintin did the same.

_I didn't even tell her goodbye. "I need to talk to your husband," I said. I was angry. I didn't even say goodbye._

Outside, the air smelled crisp and sharp. The cold snapped at his nose, biting his fingertips. He couldn't tell whether or not it was snowing, or the wind was simply blowing snow from the top of the buildings.

_What have I done? _he thought dully. _What did I do? Now she's dead._

"I'll be right back, lad," the Captain murmured, breaking into his thoughts.

Tintin didn't reply. He didn't even nod. Even when the Captain's hand rested on his shoulder and he could see the older man's face, kind, concerned, he didn't say anything. After a moment, Haddock patted his shoulder and removed his hand, trudging through the snow and towards the doors of the police station.

_They wanted to be free, _Tintin thought, watching as his breath formed a cloud and slowly disappeared into the bitter December air. _If I had stopped them in time, they would have lived on, tortured by what happened._

But knowing this did little to comfort him.

Forgetting about the Captain, about the police, he began to walk. With no destination in mind, he drifted, wandering towards the road, away from the village.

"Tintin!" Haddock's voice rang through the winter air, but Tintin didn't stop. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care.

The cold wind ran through his hair as the bleak, frozen landscape opened up before him. He looked around, taking in the world surrounding— the rolling hills, the church steeples poking out from the black skeletons of trees, the muddy roads leading through the old village. Everywhere was snow, dressing the entire world in a thick blanket of grey.

He slowed down when his lungs began to burn with the cold wind and frantic pace of his walk. He was farther out of the village now, on a winding path almost completely covered with snow. Staring upwards, he watched as the last of the stars began to blink out of the night sky. The snow that blanketed the land was the same colour as the sky, and you could barely tell where the two met.

He surveyed his surroundings, panting slightly and feeling winded. The world seemed to be one uniform grey, punctuated only by black skeleton trees and the silhouettes of windmills in the distance. At the end of the path, there was a stone church with its doors open, and he could see people bundled in winter clothes drifting in and out of it.

He was trudging along, wrapped up in memories, when, from somewhere, came the sound of singing. Soft, quiet singing, drifting on the snow-brushed wind.

His legs moved, without permission, in the direction of the sound.

_Silent night… holy night…_

It wasn't long before Tintin found his way to the old cathedral. It stood there, tall and serene, like it had for centuries, grey stone encircling the old wooden door and stained glass windows.

_All is calm, all is bright._

The doors were wide open, right in front of him. The inside of the church was bathed in the soft light of flickering candles. People who had woken early for the early morning mass dotted the mostly empty pews, their heads bowed in prayer.

_Round yon virgin, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild._

Tintin made his way to an empty seat and sat down, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes trained on the crucifix before him as it stood, bleeding arms outstretched.

_Sleep in heavenly peace. _

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

/

The music continued to drift softly from the old church as he made his way through the snow, back to the police station. The Captain was standing outside, waiting at the door, and nodded to Tintin as he approached.

"Nestor's coming around to pick up the car later. They're still taking out the… you know. Bodies." He shifted his weight to the other leg uncomfortably. "Ready to go?"

Tintin nodded mutely, tightening his scarf and beginning to walk in the direction of the main road. Snowy appeared from behind the police station, wet and muddy, trotting happily alongside.

"It's a cold world," the Captain said softly, as their boots crunched in the wet snow and the wind bit into their faces.

The corners of Tintin's lips turned up into a faint smile, though the rest of his face was downcast. "I know."

"You just have to… I don't know, keep on moving forward."

"Odette and Serge didn't." Tintin's voice was quiet.

"No. They didn't." The Captain shook his head, taking another step through the knee-deep snow "But things were different. I think, sometimes… you've just been moving forward… long enough."

"They'd been moving a long time." Tintin sighed thoughtfully, shoving his hands into his pockets and exhaling a cloud into the crisp air. "You're right. I know that. It's just… I don't know. I just wish it could have..."

When Tintin's voice trailed off, the Captain murmured, "Me too."

They trudged in silence for a while longer. Wisps of smoke drifted from the houses in the village: people just beginning to wake up, getting ready for the day and celebrations ahead of them. Forgetting about the storm. Moving forward.

Maybe there were two ways of moving forward. You could run: you could leave everything behind and forget about what happened, banishing it into some part of your mind where you never, ever went again. Or you could stay where you were, and you could hold onto everything you had, until your strength and the strength of what you held on to made the pain and the fear around you suddenly become nothing.

Maybe once, Odette had run; she had tried to forget.

But she had stopped forgetting.

She had held on. She had held on with everything she had.

_Maybe she made the right decision. _He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling the wind brush softly against his face. _Even if I failed to._

For the first time, his heart felt as if it was expanding instead of constricting, as if a tourniquet around it had been removed and the blood was finally running free.

"I loved her, Captain," Tintin said suddenly. He didn't sound angry or regretful; he was simply stating the facts.

Haddock said, "I know."

They trudged together, through the waist-deep snow, out of the village, down the winding path, and on the road back home.

**The End**

* * *

"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours." ― Vera Nazarain

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow.

Wow. All... done. Wow.

First of all, thank you all SO MUCH for reading and reviewing. This story would have been totally impossible without you. I hope you loved this story as much as I did. :) And if you were as emotionally invested in this story as I was, your brain will never be able to correctly process the song Silent Night ever again... man, I'm going to be a wreck when Christmas rolls around.

As always, a review would make my day. In fact, it would make this entire project worth it. So, if you haven't reviewed yet, now is the time.

Finally, when I'm finished with my next story (Resurrection, which I'm already working on and posting) I'm going to work on a cute little Hallmark Christmas Tintin story (A Very Tintin Christmas, perhaps?) So stay tuned for that. :)


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